


Those Who Favor Fire

by endearinglysad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endearinglysad/pseuds/endearinglysad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam disappears after saving Dean the night his deal comes due. Four months later, he follows her into Hell, intent on saving her, only to find out that she completely gave in to her powers in order to save him. Now, Hell is under attack and Sam is convinced Dean has been sent by her enemies to kill her. She doesn’t trust him, but Dean’s not leaving without her—even if it means fighting on the side of Hell to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Favor Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to my awesome artist davincis_girl! Her beautiful art is the best thing about this story, and she was an absolute peach to work with. Make sure you stop by her art post and give her some love. Thanks too to my lovely betas hopefulwriter27 and truelyesoteric. Reasons why they are wonderful, along with some other acknowledgements, can be found at the end of the story.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Written for the 2010 spn_j2_bigbang
> 
> The .pdf with art can be downloaded [here](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=DIZQHD6R).

_Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I’ve tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
~Robert Frost_

 

  


—||—||—

 

 **CHAPTER 1**

 

The pale gravel of the crossroads gleamed in the moonlight. The night was warm for early summer, cricket-song and the scent of jasmine in the air, and the stars gleamed close and bright in the sky above him this far from the lights of any town.

Dean breathed it all in. This wasn’t the worst place to die.

The quiet of the night seeped into his bones, too peaceful for what was about to happen here. He wondered briefly if everything would seem the same a few hours from now, after he was gone. If that peace would return after he’d been ripped apart by hellhounds, after the gravel shone wet with his blood, after the scents of demons and death floated down the road in four directions. He wondered if Sammy would ever find this place, and be able to tell that this was where his deal finally came due.

Thinking about Sam hurt worse than thinking about Hell. She’d been gone when he’d woken up that morning, the little room they shared at Bobby’s empty of any sign that she’d ever been there. Part of him wanted to be mad at her for abandoning him, but mostly he was just relieved that the last thing he saw wasn’t going to be his sister’s tear-streaked face. A goodbye would have been nice though.

He’d spent the day tinkering on the Impala, replacing belts and hoses and spark plugs and anything else he could think of to keep his hands busy. The sun was sinking when he finally closed the hood, but he spent another half-hour buffing the paint with a soft rag. Then he’d covered her up with a new tarp, strapped down the corners and made sure she was secure in a corner of Bobby’s yard. She’d be ready when Sam came back for her.

He caught a ride with a trucker heading south to Omaha. They travelled in silence until they reached Elk Point and Dean quietly told the man that this was his stop. Obligingly, the guy pulled over. Dean pressed the last of his cash into the man’s hand with a grateful nod and then started walking. There was a crossroads here a couple miles down a deserted farm road, isolated where it would be highly unlikely for some random passerby to stumble across doggie dinner-time and get shredded in the feeding frenzy. He knew the hellhounds would find him even if he was in the middle of Times’ Square, but a crossroads seemed more fitting. This should end like it began.

He checked his watch. 11:23. He’d hoped to time this a little better, didn’t want to have to stand around waiting, but what the hell. Maybe some red-eyed bitch would show up to keep him company, and if not… He pulled a flask from his back pocket and took a seat at the edge of the road.

11:27.

The whiskey went down smooth. He’d splurged on the good stuff, figured he was entitled. He’d left the remains of the bottle at Bobby’s. He wasn’t sure if Bobby’d drink it or not, but it was there if he wanted it. Besides, he couldn’t bring himself to waste good liquor.

11:30.

A howl sounded from the east and every hair on Dean’s body stood on end. He forced himself to stay seated and take another pull from the flask. He still had time.

11:32.

Dean unhooked his watch and tossed it off into the field.

Another howl sounded, closer this time. He could still hear the crickets though. He took another drink and the whiskey burned.

“So what’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Dean didn’t jump at the voice next to his ear, but it was a close thing. He’d been expecting her after all.

Turning, he eyed the petite woman seated next to him on the ground. She didn’t look anything like the last crossroads demon he’d dealt with—the slinky black dress and throaty purr replaced with jeans and an almost self-deprecating murmur. He knew it was because what tempted him in a woman now had changed in the last year, and they’d gotten the clothes close enough, but everything else was wrong—hair too long, eyes too red.

He took a last drink and then shoved the flask back into his pocket.

She pouted at him, sinking back into her familiar coyness. “Aw, baby, don’t be like that. I just thought you’d like some company.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but my date should be here any minute.”

“She didn’t come with you? Well, that’s not like the Sammy we all know and _love_. Unless…” Faux confusion turned to barely concealed glee, punctuated by a gasp of pretend concern. “Sammy’s not coming? Oh, Dean—all alone. Again.”

Dean glared at her but didn’t respond.

“Well, poor little thing probably couldn’t handle it, could she? Knowing she was going to have to watch her brother get ripped apart by hell hounds and she couldn’t do a thing to stop it? That she’d had a whole year to save you and failed? That would be hard for anyone, especially when you’re more than just her brother, aren’t you Dean?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, standing up quickly. He needed to get away from her before he did something stupid.

“Oh, what’s the matter, Dean? I mean, you agree right? Just seems like you of all people should have been able to fuck some loyalty or something into that girl at some point during the last year,” she laughed and stood up to follow Dean, and he watched her brush the dirt from her borrowed jeans. He was distracted for a moment by the incongruity of the gesture, that the demon would even care. Then she started talking again. “I guess Sammy just isn’t the kind to stick around. Well, not for you at least.”

“Shut up!” His voice was louder this time, and he took a step toward her but she just laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry, Dean,” she taunted. “I’m sure Sam cares about you. I mean, we all know how much you care about her. I bet she gave you a real nice goodbye kiss.”

Dean stared back at her, eyes hard, and tried to keep his face blank, but the comment stung and she knew it.

“Not even a goodbye kiss?” she crowed. “Let me get this straight. Your baby sister, the girl you’ve taken care of all your life, the girl you sold your soul for and have been _fucking_ for the last year, took off and left you to die alone?” She burst into laughter. “Oh, Hell is going to be _so much_ fun for you,” she added when she calmed down enough to speak.

Horrific baying, much closer now than it had been before, stopped him from asking what exactly she meant by that. He forced a familiar devil-may-care smirk to his face. “Well, that’s my ride, bitch. Feel free to crawl back into whatever demonic cess-pit you slithered out of.”

“You don’t think I’m going to miss this, do you?” she asked with a laugh. “Closing the deal of the century? The soul of Dean Winchester, bought and delivered by me. I tell you, I have been the belle of the fucking ball downstairs, like Miss America and prom queen and Paris Hilton all rolled into one. And now I get to see it all go down. Front row, center ice.” She was suddenly standing much closer to him. “You’re going to run, right? I love it when they run,” she purred in his ear.

Gravel crunched to his right, and Dean turned to see the dark shape of a hell hound creep out of the shadows of the road. Its dark fur was black and matted, gleaming under the harsh white moon like the beast was sweating blood. Dean could see its bared teeth, hear the constant low snarling growl, and its eyes were fixed on him, burning red. It was soon joined by several of its brothers, and if the crunching gravel was any indication, there were more behind him too.

The demon clapped her hands and laughed joyously, and Dean wondered how he had ever, even for a second, thought she looked like Sam.

He ran.

He left the road immediately, took off into the trees that filled two corners of the crossroads and dodged haphazardly between them, hoping to keep the dogs off-balance behind him. He could still hear them, crashing through the underbrush behind him, snarling and panting and right on his heels. His broken path soon led him to the road again, and he burst out of the trees a few hundred yards from where he’d gone in, and headed back in the direction of the crossroads.

As he got closer, he could see two more hell hounds waiting for him. He veered off the road again, this time away from the forest. The ground was flatter here, but there was less cover, just the tall grasses and field brush of undeveloped land. He cut across the corner, coming out on the road again, but this time he headed away from the crossroads, the hell hounds still close on his heels.

His breath was coming in deep gasps now; he couldn’t keep his current pace much longer. A bolt of true fear shot through his stomach, the accompanying adrenaline giving him a little boost of speed. He knew the hounds would keep running him until he collapsed in exhaustion, and they’d tear him apart when he was too tired to fight.

He left the road again, running parallel to it this time, not wanting to get lost in the long grass. He mounted a short rise, muscles in his legs burning, and when he got to the top he could see for miles. The road stretched out to his left, familiar somehow, and he realized that this was the road he’d walked to get to the crossroads.

He burst onto the gravel track, his short hope giving him some added strength. He could see lights in the distance. He ran blindly for them until he realized that they weren’t streetlights or the lights of the interstate, but twin headlights heading straight for him.

They came closer, and soon, over the loud barking and growling of the hell hounds and his own labored breathing, he could hear the car, too, a throaty rumbling purr that he would recognize anywhere, anytime.

 _Sammy._

The car skidded to a stop in front of him. He could hear Sammy shouting for him to get in as he skidded across the hood and landed next to the passenger door, jerking it open and diving inside. Sam hit the gas again as the first of the hell hounds broke out onto the road. She swerved toward them but didn’t slow down, nailing two of them and continuing down the road. Dean watched her check the rearview mirror and smile in grim satisfaction. He knew she’d seen what she’d hit, and his stomach clenched in fear. _What had she done?_

Then he realized she was headed directly for the crossroads.

“Sam, turn the car around. We’ve got to get back to the highway and get out of here.”

Sam didn’t answer, just looked at him calmly. Her eyes were sad, but determined, and he knew he’d have a hell of a time talking her out of whatever she had planned. She turned back to the road before she spoke.

“There’s goofer dust and salt in the back seat. When we stop, I want to you get out and make a circle as fast as you can. I can hold the hell hounds off of you for at least that long. Then, no matter what happens, stay in the circle.”

“What the hell? Are you crazy? What do you mean you can hold them off? I’m not going to sit in a fucking circle with my thumb up my ass while you—”

“Just promise me, Dean.” Her voice was harsh, and there was a note there he hadn’t heard before, a little thread of something, and he was suddenly more afraid than he had been with hell hounds running him into the ground.

“Sammy, what did you do?”

She didn’t answer, just hit the brakes, and the Impala spun into the center of the crossroads with a spray of gravel. Sam was out of the car almost before it had stopped completely, leaving the engine running and her door open. Cursing, Dean grabbed the two small sacks from the backseat and jumped out after her.

The dogs had followed the car, but they were still a hundred yards down the road. Dean made two quick circles, wide enough for himself and Sam, and stood inside, turning until he could see where his sister had run to.

She was standing a few feet away from him, facing off against the crossroads demon. The demon was laughing again, taunting Sam about trying to save Dean and circling her slowly. Sam stood her ground though, didn’t follow the demon with her eyes or body, just let her talk.

Dean turned at the approach of the hell hounds, watching as they surrounded the circle he’d made, barking and snarling. They dug and swiped at the gravel of the road, and Dean watched helplessly as parts of the circle thinned dangerously.

“Sam!” he yelled, panicking.

Sam and the demon turned, and Sam took several quick steps toward him, shouting something he couldn’t understand at the hell hounds.

Almost as one, the hounds dropped to their bellies in the dirt, cowering, their hellish growling turning to pitiful whimpering. She said something else to them, voice calm and loud with authority, and they peeled off one by one to disappear back into the night.

Dean stared at his sister, barely noticing that the demon was staring at her too. Sam turned back to her.

“How did you do that?” the demon asked.

Sam’s back was to Dean now, but he could hear the grim smile in her voice as she answered. “You’d be surprised at what I can do now,” she answered. Then she reached out her hand toward the demon.

The suspicion on the demon’s face turned quickly to horror, and Dean watched in confusion as she started to choke and cough. Thin tendrils of black smoke poured from the demon’s mouth, and Dean realized that whatever Sam was doing, she was somehow exorcising the demon from its borrowed body.

When the last bit of demon smoke left the girl’s mouth, she collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Sam stood tall beside her, holding the demon still with her outstretched hand as she pulled a cloth-wrapped _something_ out of her jacket with the other. Dean saw her shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath, and then she was turning to him, looking back over her shoulder the way he’d seen her do a thousand times before. Her smile was sad this time, pain etched across her features and her eyes shining. She tossed the bundle of cloth to him.

He caught it, then took a step toward her. “Sam?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“No!” he shouted, leaping out of the circle and towards where she had been standing, but she, and the demon, were gone.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, but the night was silent around him.

He looked down at the bundle in his hand. It was heavy. He unwrapped it quickly, dread growing in his stomach.

The Colt.

 _Sammy, what have you done?_

 

—||—||—

  


 

 _Four months later._

 

Dean stared at the heavy iron door in front of him, at the familiar star-patterned lock waiting quietly for the key. Sixteen months ago he’d been pretty damn sure he’d never be standing here again.

“You sure about this?”

Dean didn’t turn to look at Bobby, just let the question hang in the air between them. They’d had this conversation before—every day for the last month, in fact, as they’d painstakingly repaired the iron lines first placed by Samuel Colt over a hundred years ago. Dean had made up his mind, and Bobby knew it.

“You get the door closed behind me as soon as I’m through,” he finally answered.

Bobby huffed out a breath behind him, a barely vocalized _I know that, idjit_ , that might have made Dean smile if he wasn’t about to walk through a door into Hell.

Bobby pushed past him, Colt in hand. Dean watched him lift the gun to the lock, ready to step forward as soon as the door opened far enough. Bobby paused, and looked back at Dean, but a gruff “Good luck, son,” was all he said. He slid the barrel into the lock.

Both men braced as the lock spun, ready for the rush of noise and sulfur-scented air, waiting for the lines of the pentagram to align and the doors to burst open as hundreds of demons again attempted to make their escape. The star clicked into place. Bobby yanked the gun from the lock, not wanting to lose it in whatever fight was going to come out that door.

Nothing happened.

After a moment, Bobby looked back at Dean again, clear question on his face. Dean just shrugged though, and they stepped forward together to pull at the heavy door. Hot, fetid air poured over them in a wash lit Hell-fire red.

Hot, _empty_ air. Nothing moved in the tainted light behind the door.

“Huh,” Dean murmured. “That’s lucky, I guess.” Bobby gave him a cross look and rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything, just pressed the Colt into Dean’s hand and stepped back.

Dean took one last breath of clean air and stepped inside, falling into a burning nothingness. The last sound he heard was the mouth of Hell clanging closed behind him.

He woke up in Hell’s boiler room.

It looked like a boiler room anyway, full of steaming pipes and grumbling machinery. The air was warm and humid, but distinctly lacking in sulfur. There was even a glowing red _Exit_ sign at the far end of the room, its helpfully lit arrow pointing to the left, to what appeared to be the door to a dimly lit stairwell. The whole place had a vaguely familiar feel.

With a muttered curse he started weaving around pipes and machinery, the Colt solid in his hand. He reached the stairs quickly, one short flight up to a single door and lit by a bar bulb at either end. He took the steps in twos and turned the handle on the unmarked door slowly, wondering if finding the door unlocked was a sign of good luck or just how screwed he was. He pushed it open and peered into the space beyond.

A hallway, bright with fluorescent lights—a school hallway.

 _What the fuck?_

Dean tucked the Colt into the small of his back under his waistband and made sure it was covered by his coat before easing out into the hall.

Rows of lockers lined each wall, and his boots were quiet on the waxed tile floor. He had another vague feeling of recognition, like he’d been here before, but he’d never bothered to count all the high schools he went to, and if this was a school he’d attended, the memory was buried under a hundred just like it. Right now, all he cared about was finding out why he was in a high school (as Hell-like as they usually were) in the first place.

…Until a hot brunette grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into a nearby supply closet. Her mouth was on his immediately, and he kissed her back without thinking, only barely hearing the sound of a bell ringing in the background. He was starting to enjoy her inexperienced little nips at his lips until the “inexperienced” part flashed a little louder in his brain and he realized he was making out with jailbait.

He pushed her away, gently but firmly, staring into her face and trying to figure out what was going on when the door opened behind him. A sweet looking blonde girl was standing there, eyeing him with disappointment on her face, and he fumbled for a minute trying to explain why he was in a closet making out with a girl more than ten years his junior.

The blonde just shook her head in disgust and turned to walk away. Dean called after her, words coming from a half formed memory. “Come on, baby, she means nothing to me. Don’t be mad.”

He had a moment to wonder where the hell that had come from, but then she turned back and was speaking, and he suddenly remembered, very clearly, everything she was about to say.

“I’m not mad, Dean. I thought maybe, underneath your whole I-could-give-a-crap-bad-boy thing that there was something more going on. I mean, like, the way you are with your sister? But I was wrong. You spend so much time trying to convince people that you’re cool but it’s just an act. We both know that you’re just a sad, lonely little kid. And I feel sorry for you.”

Dean watched her walk away, wanting to yell after her that he wasn’t a kid, he was a hero, but he stayed silent. He remembered this, remembered her words, remembered her leaving him alone in the hall, remembered the other kids who’d stared at him after she’d gone. He remembered how pathetic he’d felt, especially after he could admit to himself that she was right.

Dean snapped out of it—he needed to get out of here. He headed down the hall, trying to ignore the whispers and laughter of classmates he hadn’t seen or even thought of in over ten years. The humiliation felt fresh though, and he cursed himself for letting the scorn of a bunch of pimply-faced demon bait get to him. He searched for the door he’d come through, vaguely remembering where it should be, more from trying to sneak into it a few times all those years ago than from coming out of it fifteen minutes ago. He found it just as the phone in his pocket rang, and he knew it would be Dad, ordering him to find Sam and meet him in front of the school ASAP.

Sam.

He wondered briefly if she would be waiting for him in the hall where they usually met. He wondered if he would walk with Sam out the front doors of the school and find Dad waiting in the Impala with all their gear packed up and ready to go the way he had last time this had all happened.

And that was the rub—last time. Somehow he’d stumbled into a memory, a bad one, but whatever was going on here, it wasn’t real.

He ignored the ringing phone and reached for the door. It was locked from this side, but since detention was really the least of his worries right now, he kicked it open with a solid boot just to the left of the handle and rushed inside.

He was in a bedroom.

The room was small but homey. A bed was pushed up against one wall, comfortable looking and unmade, and a small dresser and desk rounded out the room’s furnishings. The tops of both the desk and dresser were cluttered with pictures and textbooks and little trinkets, and the whole room felt feminine and inviting and very, very familiar.

He sighed and picked up one of the framed pictures from the dresser. A beautiful, dark-haired girl stared back at him, her father’s arm wrapped tight around her waist. She was wearing a red graduation gown, and both were smiling, happy and proud. He returned to picture to its spot and ran a nervous hand through his hair.

The door behind him opened and Cassie walked out of what was now a tiny bathroom in a cloud of steam. She was wrapped in a towel, using another to dry her hair, but she dropped it over the back of her desk chair when she saw him standing at the dresser.

“Dressed, huh? I thought I did a better job hiding your clothes.” She was smiling at him and slid easily into his arms. “I was going to keep you in bed for a while longer.”

Dean held her loosely; he didn’t remember her being so small. He forced a return smile. “Uh, yeah. I—my dad called,” he lied, determined to get out as quickly as possible. “He needs my help. With that job he’s working.”

Cassie stepped back, smile fading. “Already? I thought we were going to have some time together today.”

“Yeah, sorry. He just…I gotta go.”

She turned away from him, began yanking open dresser drawers and pulling out clothes, clearly angry. “Look, if you don’t want to be here, fine. Just leave. But quit using your father as an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse! What we do—it’s important, Cassie. One day you’ll understand.”

She slammed the drawer and turned on him. “I want to understand now. I like you, Dean, I really do, and I think we could really have something here. So if we’re going to have any kind of future, I need to know why my new boyfriend apparently can’t spend more than a few hours in the same room as me.”

Dean sighed, remembering how this had gone down the last time, the look on Cassie’s face changing from disbelief to disgust, and words like _crazy_ and _freak_ getting tossed at his retreating back. He really didn’t want to relive that. Besides, he was starting to get an idea of what was going on here, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t being given opportunities to make up for past mistakes.

He turned, ignoring her question, and looked for a way out. He wasn’t sure if going back through the door he’d come in through would take him into yet another blast from the past or if he’d just find himself stuck in the bathroom. The room’s other door opened into a short hallway, he remembered, but he wasn’t sure if he’d actually make it into the hall or if he’d get pulled into another memory.

But he had to find Sam. He headed for the door to the hall. If he was with Cassie, then Sam should be at Stanford, and as long as he was stuck here, he was going to make his way towards Sam.

Cassie shouted after him as he walked down the hallway and into the living room—apparently he couldn’t entirely escape repeating the past, no matter what he did—but he ignored her and the pangs of too many bad memories of years without Sam. He paused only long enough to scoop up her car keys before leaving the apartment entirely.

The hall Dean stepped out into wasn’t long. It also most definitely was not the hallway of Cassie’s apartment building, which meant he was back to square one in finding Sam.

Fuck.

He stood at one end of the hall and looked to where it ended in a left turn about fifty feet ahead of him. Every few feet along both sides stood a door, blank and non-descript. Dean wondered briefly if he was in some kind of hotel, but the doors lacked numbers and apparently locks.

He moved silently down the hall. This place was not familiar, and he slowed his gait and pulled the Colt, grateful for the comforting weight in his hand as he crept forward. He had to figure out where he was before he could figure out where Sam might be, but he couldn’t remember ever being in a hall like this. He reached the turn and stopped at the corner, peeking around to make sure the next stretch was empty. This side of the hall was longer, stretching far enough that he couldn’t quite tell what was on the other end of it, but still lined with the ubiquitous doors. He didn’t see any people though, so he rounded the corner and continued on.

The hall ended in an elevator. There was no indication of floors above or below, and only one call button with no arrows pointing up or down. He pressed the button and waited. He heard no creak of wires or machinery, no quiet _bing_ to indicate the car had arrived, but after waiting a few moments, the doors parted on a soft puff of air, and Dean found himself staring at three very surprised demons.

 _Now we’re talking_ , he thought, raising the Colt.

 

—||—||—

 

 **CHAPTER 2**

 

Dean studied the monitors that lined the wall of the office he’d been stuck in.

He’d been expecting a fight, but the demons had just grabbed him and started dragging him to the elevator. One of the demons had taken the colt from him and tucked it into some unseen pocket. The other two seemed entirely unwilling to let him go, even for a second, and with four hands on him, dragging him along, there wasn’t much he could do but go with them. None of them looked at or spoke to him.

They’d brought him to the top floor, or what he’d assumed to be the top floor, as there were no buttons inside the elevator either, and no lights or numbers to indicate where they had started or stopped. The elevator doors had opened straight into a huge, luxuriously appointed office. The demons tossed him in, and the lead demon finally spoke as Dean was picking himself up off the floor.

“Wait here.”

Then the doors had closed and they were gone.

He’d searched the office quickly. Leather couches lined one of the walls, directly across from a counter that held some food and small wet bar. A few paintings were placed on the otherwise bare walls, but they mostly showed generic rooms or landscapes. A huge desk took up the center of the room, polished cherry wood that glowed in the warm lighting of the room. Two low-backed leather chairs sat in front of it, and the only thing on top was a small lamp and an empty blotter. He felt a small thrill of victory at finding a door at the back of the room, but it only led to a small bathroom. He found no other ways in or out of the office besides the elevator, and closer inspection of that showed that there were no buttons or bells or any other way to call the elevator back, and no indication besides that it wouldn’t be full of demons if he could manage to get it here. With little else to do but wait, he turned to the monitors.

He was watching Hell. The reality show.

One quarter of the monitors showed what he assumed were areas the building he was in because the carpeting and general color scheme matched both the office he was in and the hallway he’d met the demons in. Several of the monitors showed that hallway, or similar hallways, and he wondered if someone had been watching him the whole time he’d been here. The guards had found him easily enough, though, so someone must have known exactly where to send them.

The other monitors were more confusing. Some were jumbles of images or movement, but most of them showed people, just going about their daily business. They were all different though. Some of the people were alone, some were clearly at work, some were drinking or at parties, or grocery shopping. One even seemed to be at some kind of theme park, whizzing through the air on a roller coaster. The only thing that all the images seemed to have in common was the abject misery on every single face, each one etched with pain, terror, or heartbreak.

He watched the parade of human agony for a while—car accidents and lost pets and dead grandmothers and broken vows—until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He forced his attention back to the screens that were focused on the building itself, made himself block out the rest, and let himself feel grateful that none of the pictures came with sound.

He watched the building operate with quiet efficiency. In addition to the mysterious hallways, there were many areas where people were working. He watched them at desks and in meetings, drinking coffee and chatting around a water cooler, and he wondered again just what was going on. He was undeniably in Hell, but it was a lot less…fire and brimstone than he’d expected. None of the screens told him why Hell looked like an insurance company.

The pictures changed angles every once in awhile, and Dean zeroed in a pretty girl about to walk close to the camera. She stopped, turning to talk to someone just out of sight, and when she turned back to continue to wherever she was headed, Dean was not surprised to see her eyes were solid black. Demon. He studied the screens again.

Every single person working in this building—whatever it was—was a demon. And they all looked human.

A voice, more familiar to him than his own, spoke from behind him.

“Everything started changing after I got here. I finally realized that it looked like this law firm I interned with the summer before I took my LSATs.”

Dean turned at her first words, drinking in the sight of her. Sam looked...older somehow, more assured, and she stood beside him looking over the monitors while she spoke. She was wearing a tailored suit, black skirt and jacket over a crisp white shirt and heels, looking every inch the lawyer she’d once planned to be. And nothing like the Sam he’d last seen four months ago.

“The senior partner there was a real asshole,” she continued, her voice smooth and perfectly modulated, but cold in a way Sam’s had never been. Sam Winchester ran hot when she was angry. “That whole summer, every morning when I walked through the front doors I would think, ‘This must be what Hell is like.’”

She finally turned to look at him. “And now it is.”

Her face was blank, closed. She stared at him, like she was waiting for him to explain himself.

He took a step forward. “Sammy?” he breathed, reaching for her.

She was suddenly a dozen steps across the room and he hadn’t even seen her move. She was walking toward the desk, her face tight, and she gestured to guards waiting by an open door. A door he hadn’t even heard open and somehow hadn’t seen when he’d searched the office. _Great job, Dean_.

“Wait downstairs. I need to talk to my brother.” Without a word, the guards slipped back through the door and closed it behind them. It disappeared seamlessly, and the only reason Dean could even tell where it had been was the painting on the wall in its place. He glanced around the room at the other paintings with renewed interest.

Sam settled in behind the desk, then looked at him. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

Dean turned his attention back to his sister, not quite sure how to answer that. Until a moment ago, he’d thought the answer was obvious. When she saw he wasn’t going to answer, she gestured to one of the chairs across from her. He walked forward slowly and sat down.

She was quiet for a moment. “Well, you got in here. Did you have a plan for getting out?”

Dean bristled at the dismissive tone in her voice. “I was mostly focused on saving you, Sammy.”

She laughed lightly, but there was no humor in it. “Save me?” She waved her hand over the desk, and the formerly empty space was suddenly full—a meticulously detailed calendar covered the formerly empty blotter, and pens and pencils were scattered among piles of papers all bearing his sister’s messy scrawl. He watched her pull a small phone out of one of her jacket pockets and set it carelessly on the desk with a casualness that made something churn deep in his stomach. “What exactly do you want to save me from?”

“This is your office,” he said slowly.

She smiled at him, but didn’t say anything. He was suddenly angry.

“I thought you were down her being tortured,” he growled. “I came to _save_ you, Sammy.”

Her smile disappeared and she stood, walking to the bar and pouring herself a drink with steady hands. It was the fact that she’d moved at all that told Dean she was upset. When she turned back to him, her voice was light and empty again.

“I believe you Dean,” she said, returning to her chair with her drink. She hadn’t offered Dean one. “I believe that you came to save me. Just like Dad told you to.”

“What? No, Sam, not—”

Sam opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out the Colt. She laid it on the desk in front of her without a word, face so calm that for a minute Dean just wanted to scream at her, rush her, do anything to make her fight him like she used to.

“You think I’m here to kill you?” he growled.

“One bullet left. Was that for me?”

In one quick, smooth motion she raised the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. The report was loud in the room, but Dean barely heard it, barely heard his own choked out “No!” as he instinctually lunged for his sister.

The bullet blew out the far side of Sam’s head, blood and bone and brains spraying across the desk and carpet in think red and black chunks. Her body slumped to the desk in front of her and what was left of her skull hit the polished wood with a wet, crunching _clunk_.

Dean watched his sister die again in less than five seconds, frozen and unable to do a thing to stop her. The gun’s report echoed in his ears and suddenly he was moving again, sprinting around the side of the desk to get to Sam’s side. He stepped on something hard—the gun, dropped from her lifeless hand—but he kicked it aside and dropped to his knees beside her, paying no attention to the warm blood soaking into the knees of his jeans.

One of Sam’s eyes was a wet ruin, the outer edge of the socket destroyed by the bullet. But the other was open, staring sightlessly at him. He reached to close it, but a hand stopped him, catching his wrist in an iron grip.

Sam’s hand.

She sat up slowly, releasing him. Her good eye was focused on him now, and he watched in horrified relief as she calmly reached up to touch the ruin of her face. She brushed her fingers across the wound, casually, like she was doing nothing more than tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and when she lowered her hand again, the damage was gone.

“I’m not a demon, Dean,” she said quietly. “I’m something else entirely.”

Her eyes looked past him, and he wasn’t surprised when guards stepped up on either side of him. “Take him. Put him in one of the guest suites for now.”

The guards grabbed him again, jerking him around to the door, but he managed a look back over his shoulder at his sister. She was staring blankly at the blood on her desk, fingering the edges of the now-phantom injury.

The door closed behind him.

 

—||—||—

  


 

The elevator ride was quiet. _Apparently Queen Samantha hates elevator music_ , Dean thought bitterly, as he and his demon guards descended through Hell’s cubicle farm.

Dean was angry, but his plans hadn’t changed. He was going to get Sam out of this place.

But Sam was right about one thing. He needed a plan for getting out, and at this point, he had to assume that he was going to have to carry it out without his sister’s help. He eyed the guards in the elevator with him. They were staring stoically at the doors in front of them, waiting for the elevator to stop on whatever floor Hell’s _guest suites_ were located on.

Dean thought for a minute. Even if he took them both out now, he had no idea how to operate the elevator, no idea how to get back to Sam, and no idea how to get back out even if he got to her. Jumping through the Devil’s Gate had landed him there, but that was only after falling for awhile. Plus, Sam had the Colt, and there was no way to know for sure if he could open the Devil’s Gate from this side even if he had it.

He needed a better idea of how this place worked so he reluctantly kept his hands at his sides, determined to wait until he saw Sam again to start trying to fight his way out.

Until the elevator doors opened on a familiar long hallway of doors.

Dean backed away from the elevator doors, shaking his head. The few minutes he’d spent in high school hell were still fresh enough in his memory that he knew he didn’t want to end up in one of those memory rooms again. The guards just grabbed him though, dragging him out and starting down the hall.

Dean kicked at the guard on his right, a solid boot to the side of his knee, and the demon went down but he didn’t let go of Dean’s arm, and Dean went down too, landing heavily on top of him. The other guard was still holding on as well, but had simply bent instead of joining the pile on the floor.

The guard under Dean twisted, trying to pin him to the floor and regain control, but Dean rolled the other way, into the still-standing guard, bringing him down like a bowling pin. His grip on Dean’s arm broke, and Dean was back up, punching the other guard with his now-free hand and taking off down the hall.

He made it about ten steps before they were on him again. A solid tackle brought him down, pinned securely this time, and the other guard, the one Dean had kicked earlier, limped over to where he was struggling to get back up and returned the gesture. The kick snapped Dean’s head to the side, hard, stunning him for a few minutes—long enough for his demon guards to haul him back up and drag him to one of the doors. He could feel a trickle of blood working its way down his cheek, but his arms were pinned again and he wasn’t sure he could move anyway, even if they weren’t.

Not taking any chances, one of the guards kicked the door open, obviously not willing to take even one hand off Dean to open the door. Then Dean once again found himself being tossed into a familiar room. The door slammed behind him.

He lay on the floor for a while, willing the pounding in his head to subside. When he finally felt like he could sit up without throwing up, he did, and took his first good look around him.

The apartment was small, but he recognized it immediately. He was sitting on the living room floor, staring at an ancient TV. It sat on a small credenza against one wall, bent antennas poking from the top of it, and he remembered that on some nights, when the weather was bad, someone would have to hold the antennas in place if they wanted to watch TV. The old thing had only gotten five channels anyway, so mostly they hadn’t bothered. Dean would flop down on the threadbare couch with a magazine and try to entertain himself while Sammy did homework at the kitchen table.

He got up slowly, mindful of his possible concussion, and turned. Sure enough, the table stood just where he remembered it. There was no real divider between the living room and the kitchen except for a transition from stained carpet to even more stained linoleum. The table was half over each, the only place it would fit and still leave room for moving around in the small kitchen.

The table itself was covered with guns in various states of assembly, and scattered among the parts were several brushes and rags and a few small vials of oil. Clearly, someone was in the middle of cleaning them.

Yeah, he definitely remembered this place, and they hadn’t been here very long, either, which meant he also had a pretty good idea of what was going to be happening soon.

He wanted no part of it.

He’d been thrown in the front door, had landed square in front of it, so he walked back over to it now. He ignored the sunlight streaming in from the windows on either side of the door and yanked it open, fully expecting to see a long hallway full of doors. Instead, he saw a street he hadn’t driven down in seven years, lined on one side by a row of run-down single story apartments, joined side by side like one long cell block, and of which their unit made up one end. The other side of the street was old homes on small lots, one of the lots left empty and turned into a small neighborhood playground, complete with rusting monkey bars and a handful of broken swings.

Dammit.

Dean shut the door and turned back to the open room. He didn’t bother checking the rest of the apartment. He was pretty sure it was empty, and even if it wasn’t he wasn’t in physical danger here. Instead, he sat down at the rickety table and picked up a cleaning rag. He had a flash of _Dad’s going to be pissed if these aren’t clean by the time he gets home_ , and then had to laugh at the absurdity of the thought. The laughter sounded wrong in the silent room.

The clock on the microwave showed that it was a little after one, and he figured he had a couple hours before Sammy got home from school and he was treated to another memory-based nut shot. If he couldn’t get out of this memory, he was at least going to try and use the time to his advantage. Plus, he needed something to distract him from the technicolor memory of Sam blowing her own brains out. He cleaned while he plotted.

He had to get back to Sam and he needed to get the Colt. That meant getting back to Sam’s office, and the elevator was out of the question. He didn’t know how to make it work, and even if he could figure it out, he’d be trapped once he was inside. There had to be another way to get around this place.

Sam was a hunter—she wouldn’t ever want to be trapped in a dead end. He thought briefly about the paintings in her office. At least one of them was a door. If the others were too, that might be a way to get around. But he’d walked by each of those paintings at least once and it wasn’t like any doors had just sprung open in front of him. So there had to be a trick to it, and until he found out what it was, he was stuck.

After an hour of polishing and thinking, he was no closer to figuring a way out than he had been when he’d started. The guns were done though, neatly cleaned and reassembled and ready to go back into whatever cases or bags they’d come out of.

He eyed the guns thoughtfully, picking up the largest of the lot and weighing it in his hand. None of these would kill a demon, but he didn’t really need to kill them, did he? All he needed to do was incapacitate them long enough to get away, and he’d already discovered the demons were vulnerable in their human forms. He may be stuck down memory lane until Sam felt like letting him out, but he was going to be ready whenever that was. He needed weapons.

Jumping up, he started digging through kitchen drawers. He found a couple knives that might come in handy, and slid one into his boot and the other up his coat sleeve. The gun he’d been considering earlier went into his waistband, into the place the Colt had rested not too long ago. It was bigger and heavier, but not longer, and it sat at the small of his back the same way his usual 9mm did. The weight was comforting and familiar.

He was in the bedroom digging through their ammo boxes when the front door opened and closed with a slam.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice called.

He froze. She sounded...

He tossed the bullets he didn’t need back into the steel box and shoved it under the bed.

Seventeen-year-old Sam was in the kitchen making a sandwich when he came out. Her back was to him, and he could tell she was tense. He knew why, even though she hadn’t told him yet.

He dropped the handful of bullets he’d managed to find on the table next to her abandoned book bag. Somewhere in that bag was an application, filled out and signed by a school counselor—a little piece of paper that was going to ruin close to five years of his life.

Sam jumped at the sound of the scattering bullets, but didn’t turn around. Dean watched her carefully spread mayonnaise on two pieces of bread.

“How was school?” he finally asked.

“Fine,” she answered. Her voice was cheerful enough, but Dean easily recognized the forced quality of it. God knew he’d heard it often enough in the last year, as they got closer and closer to Dean’s own judgment day and Sam tried to hold on to hope. “Got an ‘A’ on my English paper.”

He held his answer in as long as he could, had to force the words out of his mouth. “Guess that’s what happens when you study all the time, geek-girl.”

She huffed out a small laugh, a real one this time though, but kept working on her sandwich. If she noticed how forced his voice sounded, she didn’t give any sign.

Dean didn’t move. He waited.

After a long moment, she started speaking, trying to keep her voice light. “You know,” she started, “I’ve been thinking. My grades—they’re pretty good, even with all the moving around, and I…one of the counselors at school, Mrs. Jordan? She thinks they’re good enough to maybe get a scholarship.” She paused, swallowing hard. “To college.”

In some ways, this time was easier than the last time. He knew what was coming, knew that Sam would go to college, knew that he would live through her leaving and that they would end up back together eventually, at least until Hell ripped them apart.

But mostly, all he felt was that familiar stabbing in his gut, the same thing he felt every time he was forcibly reminded that Sam wanted something else. Something that wasn’t him, or their family, or the small shreds of happiness he had managed to patch together in an attempt to make life okay for them. It was never okay for her, never enough.

“College?” he asked dully, the word like glass in his throat.

“Well, you know, yeah. I mean, I think it’s time I start planning for my future.”

He didn’t answer, and she finally turned to him. She looked worried, and scared, like she knew what this would do to them, but she was going to do it anyway.

“I can’t live this life forever, Dean.”

He waited a moment, until he thought he could speak again. “What’s wrong with this life?”

She made a noise of disgust and turned back to her sandwich, slapping two slices of ham on to the bread with a lot less care than she’d been taking a few moments ago. She tossed the knife in the sink. “Well, let’s see,” she began angrily. “I own more guns than Barbie dolls, I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to be someone’s girlfriend, I was almost late to take my SATs because I was up late the night before digging graves and burning corpses, and oh, yeah—all my scars didn’t come from falling off a bike or getting into a fight on the playground, but getting half-shredded by banshees and tossed into walls by ghosts!”

She had the sandwich on a plate now, and she shoved it into his hands and stormed past him into the living room. He stared at it dumbly for a minute; he’d forgotten she used to do that kind of thing for him. He set the plate on the table and turned to follow her.

She’d gone straight into the bedroom and dragged her duffle out of the closet. They hadn’t bothered doing much unpacking, knowing they weren’t going to be here long, and for a second, he was worried that she’d decided to leave right now. But she just yanked the zippers open and started rifling through her clothes, looking for something clean to change into.

He watched her for a moment from the doorway. “What about Dad?” he asked quietly.

“What about him?’ she retorted. Her voice wasn’t angry anymore, mostly just tired, like this conversation was going exactly like she had expected it to and she was disappointed by it. She pulled a shirt out of her bag, one of Dean’s, and then dropped to the floor to sit with it balled up in her lap. “I’m not doing this because of Dad, Dean.”

“Then why, Sammy?”

“I told you already. I can’t—” her voice broke, and when she looked at him, there were tears in her eyes. “I can’t sit in some run down shack or nameless motel night after night for the rest of my life, counting down the seconds until one day one of you doesn’t come home.”

“Sammy, that’s not—you know we’re always careful.”

She growled, angry again, and shot up off the floor to storm over to him. She shoved him into the wall, and reached down to yank his shirt up. “This is careful?” she shouted, pressing on old scars that had still been fresh when they’d actually had this conversation. “It’s gonna be you, Dean, don’t you know that? One day, Dad’s gonna try for one more shot or one more kill, and his obsession is going to get you killed.”

She was full on crying now, trying so hard not to sob against his chest as she yelled at him, but he didn’t care. She was wrong—it hadn’t been him.

He shoved her away roughly. “Don’t talk about him like that! Everything Dad does is for us, to get revenge for Mom,” he told her, voice loud and mean. “He’s trying to do what’s right for our family and we owe it to him to help!”

“What family?” she asked quietly, bitterly. “Mom’s been dead for eighteen years, Dean. Even if he found the thing that killed her tomorrow—hell, even if he found it eighteen years ago, it’s not going to bring her back. He’s so focused on his revenge that he can’t see that he’s the one who destroyed our family.”

Dean slapped her.

Sam’s head snapped back, and her hand flew to her cheek. She froze that way for a moment, then turned quietly back to her bag. She pulled out a pair of clean jeans and a shirt, then stood and walked calmly for the door, slipping into the bathroom. The door shut gently behind her.

Dean wished that it had slammed.

He couldn’t let it go like this. Not again. Sam had stopped talking to him after that night—well, talking about anything besides their everyday lives, that is. But she’d never mentioned college again, not until the night she left them for good. He started after her, yanking the bathroom door open and fully intending to chase her right into the shower if he needed to, to apologize and beg her to stay with him forever.

The bathroom was gone. He was in an alleyway, standing next to a dumpster and looking up at some windows. One of them was halfway open, probably to catch whatever breeze might blow in on this warm night. He recognized the filmy curtains drifting in and out on the air.

He climbed on top of the dumpster, reaching up to get a hand hold on the window sill and hauled himself up. He got one arm in the window, held himself in place while he pushed the window the rest of the way up, and then hefted himself inside. He tried to stay quiet, but a small vase got in the way and the tinkling of breaking glass heralded his entrance into Sam’s apartment.

He crept silently through the apartment, headed for where he remembered the kitchen to be, and waited for Sam to attack from behind. She still managed to catch him somewhat by surprise, came at him from the side instead of the back like he remembered. They fought for a minute—she was small and fast and he was mostly trying not to hurt her, but he got her by the arm and spun her, taking her down to the floor.

“Whoa! Easy, Tiger,” he murmured, smiling at the memory of how good it had been to see her after so long apart.

“Dean?” she asked incredulously.

He laughed, happy to have her in his hands again.

“You scared the crap out of me!” she accused, grabbing the hand that was holding her to the floor.

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice,” he teased, knowing exactly what was coming and wanting it.

Sure enough, her eyes narrowed and then she was moving, using her legs to flip them again, switching their positions.

“Or not,” Dean added, tapping the smooth leg across his chest. “Get off me.”

Sam hopped up and reached down to give him a hand. He took it, reveling in the feel of her skin against his, and realized he hadn’t gotten to touch her like this since he’d arrived in Hell. No, since _she’d_ landed in Hell the night his deal came due.

He didn’t want to let go, but she pulled her hand out of his. “Dean, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, I was looking for a beer,” he answered, repeating the flip comment he’d made once upon a time but unable to match the carelessness. A lot had changed in the last three years.

Sam’s voice was serious. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked again.

“Okay, alright. We’ve gotta talk.”

“Uh, the phone?”

“If I’d have called, would you have picked up?”

Sam didn’t have time to answer before the light was flipped on, and Dean realized why he was reliving this moment as one of the worst of his life.

Jessica.

“Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

She was beautiful, like he remembered, and he felt the same stab of pain that he’d felt the first time he’d met her and realized what she was to Sammy.

He’d always thought that Sam would come back to him, that she’d realize that she didn’t have anyone else in the world, that no one would ever love her or understand her like Dean could. They hadn’t been sleeping together at that point, hadn’t gotten quite that fucked up yet, but he had still known that he would never be able to live with anyone else.

But seeing Jess meant that Sam obviously didn’t feel the same way. Jess was her anchor to the real world, the normal world, and that world didn’t have a place for Dean in it.

He played out the rest of the memory, convinced Sam that something was wrong with Dad, got her agree to leave with him, but he felt numb. He couldn’t help noticing that Sam—his real Sam—had once again created a new world without him. And once again, there didn’t seem to be any place for him in it.

He watched his sister, younger and more innocent than he could really remember her being, walk back into her apartment to pack a bag for the weekend. With a sigh, he pulled open the driver’s door of the Impala, slid in behind the wheel.

And found himself sitting in a ratty chair in a rundown living room.

Sam was sitting a few feet in front of him at an equally ratty old table, books spread out around her as she researched something. The air was warm, but not hot, and he could smell the ocean nearby. This was Massachusetts, a few months past. And if Sam was reading up about ghost ships, then that meant that they had failed the night before and someone had died.

It still hurt, even though they had lost many people before this particular case and many since. It wasn’t so much that he had particularly cared about whoever it was that was currently cooling in a morgue freezer right now, it was more that he had really wanted to prove that bitch Bela wrong—that sometimes, you could save people.

Speaking of Bela… He glanced up at the front door about one second before the firm knock sounded.

He wandered to the door, gun in hand, and opened the small viewing screen even though he already knew who was going to be standing behind the door. Bela smirked back at him, and with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he shoved his gun back into his pants and opened the door.

She walked in, assured and confident, only to pause as she took in the house’s interior. “Dear God. Are you actually squatting?”

Dean ignored her, just calmly shut the door behind her. Sam rolled her eyes, but also didn’t respond.

“Charming,” Bela continued, managing to make it sound anything but. “So, how’d things go last night with Peter?”

Peter. That was his name.

Bela took their silence for what it was. “That well, huh?”

Dean was about to respond, tell her she could go to hell with her I-told-you-so, when a voice spoke from behind him.

“Still haven’t learned, have you, Dean? You really can’t save everyone, you know.”

The scene in front of him ground to a halt, and he turned. Another Bela stood behind him, broad smirk on her face as she took in the pain he was reliving.

“Hello, Dean.”

 

—||—||—

 

 **CHAPTER 3**

 

Dean looked back and forth between the two Belas.

“Pretty sure I would have remembered two of you running around, so what are you doing in my memory?”

“Now, Dean, is that any way to greet an old friend? I should think you’d be happy to see me.”

He returned her smirk. “Seems to me, the last time I saw you I was holding a gun to your head, and then left you to get ripped apart by hell hounds. How’d that turn out for you, _old friend_?”

Bela’s smile dipped into a frown and she regarded him crossly. “It was a joy I was very sad to learn that you missed out on, Dean.” She suddenly smirked again. “But hell hounds aren’t the only things with claws and teeth, now are they?” she asked, gesturing around the room.

Dean glared at her. “All right, fine. What are you doing here, Bela?”

“I’ve been sent to bring you to Sam. She has a proposition for you.”

“Why would she send you?”

“Well, it’s kind of my job, darling.” She stood to the side, gestured for him to follow her farther into the house. Behind him, the memories of Sam and Bela stood frozen. He followed her down the hall.

She stopped when she came to an old linen closet tucked under the staircase, and pulled it open to reveal a familiar hallway beyond. He stepped out, Bela following close behind.

Dean waited until they were in the elevator to speak again. “So, you’re playing secretary now? Doesn’t seem like your gig. What’s that pay—minimum wage?”

“Sam asks, I obey,” she replied, not rising to the bait. “I’ve been her…personal assistant for almost forty years now.”

“Sam went to Hell four months ago.”

“Dean,” she said, condescension thick in her voice. “Things work a little differently down here. We’re not bound to the same laws of time and space. What was four months for you has been forty years for us. Forty very busy years.”

She stepped closer, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Forty years is a long time, Dean. Relationships can change a lot in forty years, wouldn’t you agree?”

Dean thought about punching her, but she clearly wanted to make him angry. He gave her a blank face instead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirked and stepped back, leaning casually against the elevator wall. “Oh, don’t worry, Dean. You are still Sam’s brother, after all. Not like she could forget that.”

A loud boom drowned out whatever reply Dean would have made and the elevator shook, hard. Bela stumbled from the wall, catching herself on Dean’s arm. He shook her off as soon as everything stopped moving.

“What the hell was that?” he shouted.

“I don’t know,” Bela responded, all traces of taunting gone. She pulled a small phone from her pocket, similar to the one he’d seen Sam carrying, and pushed a few buttons. She cursed when nothing happened. “Something’s wrong.”

The elevator lurched, then slid back into a smooth glide upwards. When the doors finally opened, Bela darted out into the room beyond, leaving Dean to follow in her wake.

He’d been expecting Sam’s office again, but this was somewhere new. Sam stood at the head of a long conference table, gesturing to images on a screen behind her. Several other executive types sat in cushy chairs around the table, listening intently. Sam stopped when Dean entered the room, shooting a small glare at Bela. Bela just lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug and then took a seat at the table.

Sam continued. “The attack is coming from the north side. Patrol C is holding them at the doors, but I need a small squad to sneak around from the back and get them pinned down.”

“Attack? Who’s attacking?” Dean demanded.

Sam ignored him. “I’ve also sent fireteams to every other entrance, but so far no other incursions have been attempted.”

Sam was talking like they were at war. Dean interrupted again. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Demons,” she answered, finally. Sam glanced at the demons seated around the table, then turned back to him. “Rebels. Not everyone was convinced that I should be…in charge, and there have been some hold outs. Nothing serious.”

Another blast shook the building. Dean grabbed onto the table for balance, several of the seated demons did the same. Sam stood tall, riding out the rumbling quake.

When the ground settled again, she pointed at two of the demons seated at the table. “Ipos, Alastair, you’re with me.” She walked toward a painting, this one of stairs, and pressed her hand against it, murmuring something he couldn’t make out. A door opened from the wall and Sam and the two demons went through.

Dean caught up with her at the top of the stairwell. He had a moment to be pleased that his theory about the paintings was correct before turning his attention back to Sam. “I’m going with you.”

She was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “It’s too dangerous. I need you to stay here.” She started down the steps.

Dean followed. “We’ve been fighting demons for a while now, Sammy. Give me the Colt and let me help.”

“I can’t take that chance, Dean.” She waved her hand, and Dean found himself back in the conference room, face to face with a surprised Bela.

With a growl, he headed for the painting again. The door had closed already and he rounded on Bela.

“Open it. Now,” he growled.

She eyed him a minute and then stepped forward, pulling a tiny knife from her cleavage and making a small cut in her palm. She pressed her hand to the painting and the door opened again and Dean burst into the stairwell at a run. He heard the sounds of Sam’s heels echoing on the stone steps, accompanied by the softer footfalls of the other demons. He yelled down after her, voice echoing through the stairwell. “The last time you tried to keep me safe you went to Hell in my place, Sam! I don’t need you to protect me—I’m supposed to protect you!”

The air wavered again, and he almost stumbled when he found himself on the platform below Sam. She was still coming down the stairs, headed straight for him, but now she had a huge sword in one hand. He wondered for a moment if she was going to kill him.

She stopped one step above him, putting them at equal heights for once. She was staring at him, and he realized that she was afraid—not of him or of any possible betrayal, but that something would happen to him. She just nodded though, finally, and started down the stairs again, calling back over her shoulder. “Ipos, give him a weapon.”

Dean turned to the other two demons. One—Alastair, apparently—continued past him on the stairs, following after Sam, but the other stopped, reached behind himself, and pulled out a knife. The blade was almost a foot long and it was inscribed with symbols that Dean had seen before, on the knife he’d once taken from Ruby.

Dean eyed the demon with mistrust, but it just stared calmly back at him, waiting. Finally, Dean took the knife and headed after Sam.

They descended quickly, stopping when they got to a door labeled _ten_. Sam opened the door and the four of them crept out into an empty hallway. She led them around a few corners, and Dean could hear, from somewhere up ahead, the sound of close fighting.

Sam stopped them at the next juncture in the hall, where it came to a wide opening, and gestured for them to be quiet. She pressed herself up against the wall, peeking out quickly to see what was happening. Leaning back, she pointed across from them, where the hall continued on the other side of the open space, then sprinted forward. They followed, and Dean took a quick look to see what was going on.

The open area was a lobby of some sort, complete with a reception and waiting area. Several people were fighting throughout the area, grappling hand to hand and with various bladed weapons. He could see a series of glass doors on the other side of the fighting, but couldn’t make out what was beyond them besides a dull orange glow.

Sam had already made it to the other hall, darting forward at a run. He was a little surprised she could maintain such a speed in those heels, but apparently forty years was enough to get really good at some things.

They were so going to have a talk when this was over.

The hall turned a couple more times, mirroring the turns they’d taken on the other side, until they found themselves at another, smaller set of glass doors. Sam turned to him, putting her hand up to stop his forward movement. He stopped when her hand was pressed against his chest.

She took a deep breath. “Listen. Stay next to the building. If you get to far away from it, you may get lost and I can’t spare anyone to go out looking for you right now.”

Dean scoffed at that. “I can take care of myself, Sammy.”

Her hand clenched in his shirt. She jerked him forward and he was reminded of her newfound strength. “The second I notice you’re not by my side I send you back to Bela who will lock you in a cell for the rest of eternity.”

They stared at each other, the stubborn tilt of Sam’s head matching the set of Dean’s shoulders. He had no doubt that she would zap him straight back up to the conference room if he didn’t agree. “Fine.”

She nodded and gave his chest a little rubbing pat, then turned toward the door, but not before Dean caught the faint hint of a blush on her cheeks.

Definitely having a talk. A long one.

Sam pushed open the door and stepped outside.

The first thing Dean noticed was the sound. A hard wind was blowing but there were no trees or buildings for it to whistle through. Instead, it grated over his ears with the screech of a million screams, like it was the shrieking of the damned itself. And maybe it was.

The next thing was the smell. Sulfur and fire, rotting flesh and burning bones. He almost choked on it, wanted to fall to his knees and retch until he could get the taste of it off the back of his tongue. He jumped when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, and he turned to find one of Sam’s demons grinning dreamily at him. Alastair.

“It used to be like this everywhere” he shouted, leaning close. He looked…nostalgic. Dean jerked out of his grasp, pretty sure he didn’t want to be touched by this demon. Ever.

He turned, finding Sam fifty yards ahead of him with Ipos. He kept Sam in sight, following behind her even as he kept one hand to the wall. They ran a few hundred yards until they came to a corner, then they were around it and heading toward what Dean figured was the entrance they’d snuck past earlier.

He finally thought to look up, glancing above him for just a minute before returning his attention to the uneven terrain he was crossing. He couldn’t see the top of the building, couldn’t tell if it disappeared into the strange orange clouds, or if it just faded into oblivion like the metaphysical construct it had to be.

It didn’t really matter now. He kept running.

Sam stopped them again a few feet from the main doors. Three men stood at the doors facing out, clearly expecting a rear attack. Sam gestured at the two demons with them, and Alastair and Ipos drew their weapons—short, pointed, silver swords like Dean had never seen before —and engaged the three demons. They made quick work of them, each one disappearing in a blaze of white light on the point of a silver blade.

Dean had never seen a demon burn up like that before, but there wasn’t time to think about that now. Sam was already heading inside. She shouted over her shoulder at them, “Keep them distracted while I set up!”

The four of them burst in through the doors. Not much had changed in the time they’d been outside, but a few more demons had joined the mix. Dean wasn’t sure who was on which side, couldn’t tell the rogue demons from the loyal ones, but then he decided he didn’t really care and just waded in to the fight.

He tried to keep Sammy in sight, kept his face in her direction as much as possible as he hacked and slashed his way through the demons. Alastair and Ipos were on the other side of the room, taking out demons one by one with their pointed swords. Dean couldn’t tell what Sam was doing, but he did notice her looking up every few minutes to locate him in the room.

She stood off to one side, against a wall and out of the fighting. Alastair and Ipos were in front of her, keeping the fighting demons away. She was drawing something on the wall, and Dean realized with sick horror that she was using her own blood to do it.

He started fighting his way toward her.

He was halfway there when Sam shouted something and slapped her hand to the middle of the symbol she’d drawn. In an instant, a blinding white light flashed through the room, and half of the demons that had been fighting a moment before disappeared in the blast.

The ensuing silence was almost deafening.

Sam stepped away from the wall and out into the center of the room. Alastair pressed a handkerchief into her hand, and Sam accepted it with a grateful nod, winding it around the deep cut in her arm.

She gave few orders to the demons present, sent Alastair and Ipos to do another sweep of the building and then report back to the council in the conference room. Finally, she turned to Dean.

“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, stepping close to him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Dean looked from her to the dead demons still lying on the floor, to the bloody symbol on the wall, and then back to her. “I’m pretty sure you could have,” he responded darkly.

She just nodded once, her eyes dropping. Then she looked up again. “Come on,” she said, and gestured him to follow her.

“What about this?” he asked, waving the knife in his hand.

“Keep it,” she answered. “It’s yours now.”

He studied the blade again, using the clean edge of his shirt to wipe away the blood. He couldn’t hold back the delighted smile and he looked up to find Sam watching him from across the room with a weird look on her face, a strange mix of her old fond exasperation and the new coldness. He hurried to catch up with her.

He wasn’t surprised when they stepped into the elevator again. The doors closed quietly behind them, silencing the slight chaos that was still swirling around the lobby. Sam held her bandaged arm tight against her body, and Dean could see that blood was already starting to seep through. Sam caught him looking.

“It’s not serious,” she assured him quietly.

“Why don’t you just…” he asked, waving his hand over his own arm, hoping she’d get what he was asking.

She gave him a small smile. “Lost too much blood. Knife wounds are always the worst for some reason,” she said with a little laugh.

And that was just about all that Dean could take. He took two steps and stood in front of her, almost pinning her to the elevator wall. His hands came up to grasp her arms, half afraid that she’d push him away again, or zap herself across the elevator.

She didn’t.

“For god’s sake, Sammy,” he whispered, not sure exactly where he wanted to start, but knowing that a catalog of Sam’s knife wounds was definitely somewhere on the list.

She stopped him with a gentle kiss, just leaned in and pressed her mouth to his with no warning.

He moaned lightly at the contact, took another step forward to wrap her completely in his arms and hold on. God, he’d missed her, and he could tell by the way she let him deepen the kiss that she had missed him too. The knowledge made the tightness in his gut, the ever-present pain that said _Sam doesn’t need you, not like you need her_ , ease just a little.

She finally broke the kiss when the elevator doors opened, eased him back with gentle hands against his chest. She wouldn’t quite look at him, the cold and distant Sam sliding partly back into place, and just murmured “Let’s get cleaned up” before stepping out of the elevator. “Then we’ll talk.”

He followed her out into a small foyer. White paneled doors stood closed on the wall opposite the elevator doors, but they opened as Sam approached, then closed just as quietly once Sam and Dean were on the other side. He looked around, and couldn’t help a low whistle. “Pretty swanky digs, Sammy.” The place looked like the richest penthouse apartment he’d ever seen on TV or in a magazine.

She made a face, but smiled, continued through the lavish room to another set of doors. They opened into a huge but cozy-looking bedroom, and he followed her through that room too, until she opened the door to a bathroom bigger than most of the hotel rooms they had ever stayed in.

Sam led him inside, closing the door behind them. She started pulling first aid supplies out of one of the large oak cabinets that lined one wall.

Dean stepped forward. “Let me help you with that.”

She rolled her eyes, but started handing him items from the cabinet: a roll of bandages, some antiseptic, a few clean rags, and some other little things.

When she had all she needed, she moved to the sink, and started peeling the bloody handkerchief from her arm.

“Let me do that,” Dean said, stepping toward her and gently pulling her hand away.

She sighed. “Dean, I’ve been patching up my own wounds for forty years now. I don’t need you babying me.” She tried to pull her arm away.

Dean just held on tighter. “Yeah, and don’t think we’re not going to talk about that in a minute, but for now, quit being a stubborn brat and let me help you.”

She huffed out a little breath, but relaxed her arm in his grasp, and he took that as permission to keep going. He worked quietly for a while, concentrating on removing the cloth from her skin as painlessly as possible. She was quiet beside him, no little catches of breath or little pained whines like she used to make whenever he had to patch her up. He missed them—he still wasn’t quite sure what to do with this hardened Sam.

When the last bit of the handkerchief finally peeled away, she turned on the tap and held her arm under the running water, using her other hand to clean away as much of the blood as she could. He let her wash the wound herself, worked on preparing the bandages.

“Do you want me to stitch it up?” he asked while she dried her arm carefully.

Pulling the towel away, she looked at the cut more closely. It was already smaller. “Nah,” she finally said. “It’s not that deep, and in an hour or so I can heal it on my own.”

Dean looked at her curiously. “So, what? You have to recharge or something?”

She sighed, but looked him square in the eye, clearly not sure how he was going to take this next bit of information. “It’s the demon blood, Dean. That’s how I can heal myself—it’s one of my powers. But when I lose a lot of blood, it just takes a while, okay? And I needed a lot of blood to paint that symbol.”

“Speaking of, what was it?” He set to work wrapping a clean bandage around her arm and tying it off. “I’ve never seen a demon use a spell like that.”

“Something I picked up a few years ago,” she responded vaguely. “Come here. You have cuts on your face.”

He let her change the subject—for now. He leaned up against the sink while she wet one of the rags under the warm water, then let her dab at the cuts on his face. He hadn’t even felt them stinging until she’d mentioned them, and the warm cloth was a relief.

He waited until she was finished and had turned back to grab a tube of ointment before he asked her a question that had suddenly occurred to him. “Where’d you get all this stuff, anyway? I didn’t think Hell would have a Walgreens on every corner, too.”

She laughed lightly, and smiled at him, that deep Sammy smile of white teeth and crinkled eyes. He really wanted to kiss her again. “No. Whenever I send someone topside I have them pick up a few things.” She dabbed the ointment on his face over the worst of the cuts.

“Seriously?”

She shrugged, and started gathering first aid supplies to put them back in the cupboard. “You’d be surprised at how little it takes to make Hell more bearable, Dean.”

“It’s Hell, Sammy. It’s not supposed to be _bearable_.”

She turned on him, eyes flashing. “Do you think I don’t know that?” she snapped. “Hell is different for everyone, Dean, and believe me, the ones who are supposed to be suffering are.” She opened another cupboard and yanked out a towel.

“Different Hells? You mean the memory rooms.”

“They aren’t rooms, Dean. They’re individual Hells, nine levels of them, universes of pain designed specifically for the people who get thrown into them.”

“So, what? Hell is reliving your worst memories over and over?’

“For some,” she answered, turning back to him. “For some it’s the rack. For some it’s fire. Whatever will hurt you the most.”

He was quiet, watching her. “And what’s your Hell, Sammy?” he asked finally.

Her face crumpled and she looked at him wildly, then he watched as she pulled herself back together and stepped away from him.

“I’ve set out a clean towel for you—feel free to wash up. You’ll find clothes in the closet.” She pulled open the bathroom door. “I’m going to get something to eat,” she finished quietly, closing the door behind her.

Dean stared at the door for a minute and then decided a quick shower wasn’t a bad idea. His clothes reeked of sulfur even though he hadn’t been outside that long, and that probably meant that his skin did too.

The water felt heavenly, and he stayed in longer than he’d planned, enjoying the hot water and even pressure on his aching muscles. He could only find Sam’s soap and shampoo, but he figured that smelling a little flowery was probably preferable to stinking of sweat or rotten eggs, so he helped himself.

He climbed out of the shower, drying off with the fluffy white towel Sam had left him, then wrapped it around his waist and went in search of Sam’s closet. It was almost half the size of the bathroom, full of Sam-sized suits and gowns, with a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts tucked at the back. He was surprised to find that a section of one wall was full of clothes in his size, and looking a little closer, he realized that they weren’t just his size, they were _his clothes_.

 _What the hell?_

He was pretty sure that most of this had been left behind at Bobby’s, and there were some shirts and an old pair of jeans that he hadn’t seen for months. Dean wondered if Sam had sent someone to retrieve his clothes on their last routine trip to the surface, and just how many times that had happened. He wondered if collecting his old clothes was one of those things that made Hell more bearable for Sam. One more item to add to his list of questions for her.

He selected clothes at random, and found underwear in a nearby dresser. He dressed quickly and left his towel in a heap on the bathroom floor, then went out to join Sam in the kitchen.

She’d made sandwiches. A plate of them sat near her elbow, and she slid it over to Dean when he dropped into the chair across from her. He suddenly realized that he was starving, but he stared at the sandwiches for a moment, remembering.

Sam misinterpreted his hesitation. “Don’t worry,” she said with a little laugh. “I didn’t hide any pomegranate seeds in them or anything.”

Dean laughed a little too, shook his head, and took a big bite.

Sam watched him chew for a minute before clearing her throat. “But speaking of, I think it’s time for you to go home, Dean.”

The sandwich turned to sawdust in his mouth and he had to force himself to swallow. The single bite he’d managed to eat sat like lead in his stomach. He set the rest of it down on the table. “Fine,” he said after a minute. “Whenever you’re ready, we can leave.”

He knew she’d gotten the message, but she just smiled sadly. “I can’t leave, Dean.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She sighed. “Hell is mine now, and I can’t just walk away from that. I belong here. But you don’t.”

He slammed his hand down on the table. “You don’t belong here any more than I do!”

“That’s not true, Dean. Demon blood, remember? I’ve been tainted from birth.”

“That’s bullshit, Sammy, and you know it.” He jumped up and rounded the table, dropping to one knee in next to her chair and taking her face in his hands. “I don’t give a flying fuck what Dad, or Yellow Eyes, or Lilith or whoever says. You’re not tainted, Sam.”

She stared back at him, searching his face for something, but then he watched something slam down behind her eyes, and suddenly he was kneeling halfway across the room. When he got back to his feet, she was standing next to the table, eyeing him with that same cold look she’d worn when she’d first spoken to him in her office.

“I can’t force you to leave,” she said, voice indifferent now, and it pained him to hear it. “But I can make you very much regret staying.”

Dean squared his shoulders. “You do what you have to do, but I’m not leaving without you.”

A knock sounded on the front door.

They stared at each other a moment, then Sam waved a hand and the doors swung open. Bela sauntered through, took one look at them and broke out in a wide grin.

“Ooh, I do hope I’m interrupting something,” she purred, and settled herself down on one of the plush couches.

Sam and Dean glared at each other for another moment, then with a shake of her head, Sam spun to join Bela in the living room. Dean sat down at the table again and jerked the plate of sandwiches closer to him. If he was going back to one of the torture rooms until Sam came to her senses, he was damn well going to do it on a full stomach. He listened closely to their conversation.

“What is it?” Sam asked Bela somewhat grouchily, like she was struggling to retain her stoicism.

“We caught one, Sam,” Bela answered, with a quick look towards Dean. He didn’t miss the subtle quirk of her eyebrows either. “He was trying to sneak up the back stairs.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “We went down the back stairs. How did we miss him?”

“We’re not sure,” Bela answered. “The cameras didn’t catch him either, and he’s not talking.”

“Fine.” She stood. “Have him brought to my office. I’ll meet you there.” Bela nodded and left, and Sam disappeared into her bedroom. When she returned, she was wearing a new suit, and Dean could tell by the smooth line of her sleeve that the bandage was gone.

She walked straight to the door, then turned, looking at him impatiently. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

Dean caught up to her before she’d reached the elevator.

The ride was silent, but mercifully short, and the doors opened to reveal Sam’s office once again. He followed her inside. She pointed to one of the couches. “Sit there, and keep your mouth shut.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, but flopped down onto the couch anyway. Sam settled in behind her desk. Dean watched her for a few minutes. She seemed awfully tense for a meeting with a demon, even a rogue one.

They waited in silence for a few moments until a soft ding signaled the arrival of the elevator. He wondered for a moment why he never heard the ding when someone was sneaking up on him, but then the doors were opening and the people inside stepped out.

Dean looked at the dark-haired man. His eyes were hard and mean, and he held himself proudly even though he was surrounded by a team of demon guards. Blood oozed wetly from a wound somewhere above his hairline, but he paid it no attention, just stared straight ahead. Other than that, he looked normal.

The guards brought him to a halt in front of Sam’s desk, and everyone stood tense, waiting to see what she would do. Dean noticed Ipos and Alastair slip in to the back of the room, silver blades drawn.

Sam didn’t move for a long moment, just stared at the man the same way she’d looked at Dean when he’d first arrived, like she was waiting for an explanation and it had better be a damned good one.

The demon stayed silent.

Sam finally spoke. “What’s your name?”

The man didn’t answer. Sam gave a small nod, and Dean turned his gaze back just in time to see one of the guards deliver a vicious kick to the back of the prisoner’s right knee. The man went down hard, a hiss of pain squeezing past his lips, but he still didn’t speak.

Sam got up slowly, walked around the edge of her desk to stand in front of the angel. “This will go much easier for you if you answer my questions. What,” she repeated, “is your name?”

The angel turned striking blue eyes to glare at her. “Castiel,” he finally answered.

“Thank you,” Sam replied, not unkindly, but her eyes were burning. “And why are the angels after my brother?”

Dean laughed out loud. Angels? He glanced around but no one else was laughing or even paying attention to him. He caught Bela’s eyes and she gave him a brief nod and turned her attention back to Sam.

Dean started, eyes flying to his sister. Angels? It was angels that were attacking? And they were after him? He jumped up off the couch and started forward.

Alastair was suddenly at his side, one hand on his shoulder holding him back. The man— _angel_ —had seen the movement and was staring at him now, but Sam was staring at the angel. She was pissed now, he could tell, could see the haze of power rising off her. She was trying like hell to control it, but it was leaking off of her, filling the room. The guards surrounding the angel hunched in pain, but stood their ground.

If Castiel was surprised that Sam knew even that much of their plans, he didn’t show it other than to turn his gaze to glare at her once more. Sam watched him for a moment, head cocked to one side, then turned back to her desk. “Okay,” she said simply, gesturing over her shoulder to the guards. “Take him to a holding cell and find out what he knows. Then kill him.”

 

—||—||—

 

 **CHAPTER 4**

 

The guards moved in, Bela standing to join them.

Dean jumped forward. “Sam—”

He blinked and was in the conference room. And worse, all the paintings were dark—locked tight, he imagined.

He turned to the center table and kicked a chair, hard, sending it spinning across the room. The screen was next, followed by a pile of papers stacked neatly on one end of the table. When he turned around, Sam was watching him from a seat at the other end of the table, her face impassive.

Dean dropped into the nearest chair, putting himself at the far end of the table from Sam. He glared at her, daring her to try and explain why she’d been lying to him.

She waited until he was settled and then put the room to rights with a wave of her hand. “The first thing I did after I arrived in Hell was hunt down Lilith. The ensuing fight was…messy enough that most of the warring demon factions united under my command. There were some hold outs. I didn’t lie about that.

“We watched them for a while, but they seemed to have retreated to the wastelands, most likely in an attempt to build up an opposing force, but they were losing numbers by the dozens. Most of the demons who took the time to see what I was doing here realized a good thing when they saw it.”

“Yeah, great place—nice and _bearable_ ,” he bit out. Sam ignored him.

“Then, about a year ago, we realized that the rebels were getting stronger. Their attacks were doing more damage. I knew they had to be getting help from somewhere, new spells and weapons, like the Colt and Ruby’s knife. Weapons that could kill demons. I sent out more spies, and when they reported back, we found out that the demons had teamed up with the angels, giving them backdoor access to Hell, so to speak, in exchange for weapons they could use against me. Once they had a way in, the angels started attacking regularly, always from a different direction, and always with a different number of fighters. We’ve fought off seven attacks so far.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me all this?” Dean demanded.

“Because the real kicker came about eight months ago, when we finally found out what the angels were after.” She paused. “You.”

“Why didn’t they just grab me topside, then? I’ve only been here a few days.”

“You’ve been here for two years, Dean.”

Dean stared at her.

“You were lost in your memories for a long time.”

Dean slumped in his chair. He wanted to rage at her, tear down the walls and destroy them both. But what was the point? With a wave of her hand they’d be back where they started. He couldn’t look at her anymore.

She continued quietly. “The only thing we don’t know is why they want you.”

“But you think that angel, Castiel, can tell you,” he responded dully, swallowing his rage.

“He will.”

“So you’re going to torture and kill an angel—an _angel_ , Sammy!”

Sam stood up and stalked around the table toward him. That crackling power was back. He could see it, but he couldn’t feel it.

“This is war, Dean. I can’t let him go back and tell his feather-brained brethren the layout of this place and exactly where to find you.”

Dean just shook his head. “Yeah, but killing him? Can’t you just—“

“What, keep him in a cell forever? Throw him in the Pit? He’s a goddamned angel, Dean, he’s innocent. He doesn’t belong down here, and he’d rather die than stay. I’m showing him mercy.”

“What happened to you, Sammy?”

She reared back as if he’d slapped her, stood and moved away from him. He watched her walk to the newly re-hung screen at the head of the table. With a wave of her hand it turned to a window, and he was looking at a familiar crossroads, dark with twilight and cricket song.

“That night, the night before you were going to die, I was lying next to you in bed and I realized that this was what you’d felt the night that I died in Cold Oak—that I was dead and you had failed. Because I did fail, Dean. I tried like hell for a _year_ to save you and nothing. I couldn’t even sell my soul for you, Dean, because no one would take it. Then I realized that there was one thing I could do. I left as quietly as I could, because I knew you’d try to stop me. Ruby came with me, and I just…opened myself up to it.”

“…To what?” Dean whispered.

“My powers. Everything I’d been holding back and shielding against for years. I just…let go, and it was like this muscle I didn’t even know I had just unclenched and I had all this new power. I practiced all day, and it was so easy, Dean. I knew exactly how to save you, and that I could do it to. I raced home—to you—to where I’d left you at Bobby’s, but you were already gone. I think I almost died on the spot when I saw the car all packed away.” She stopped talking for a minute and brushed a hand across her face. She turned to him.

“I had no idea where you were,” she whispered. Behind him, on the screen, he watched himself arrive at the crossroads, watched the scene play out exactly as he remembered it. “I was panicking, thinking you’d done something stupid and that I was too late. Then I just closed my eyes and thought of you, and it was like a star exploding in my head. I could feel you, see exactly where you were so clearly. I jumped in the car and started in your direction, and suddenly I was on that dirt road and I could see you running for me.”

She walked forward, haltingly, until she was standing next to him again. Her hand came up and she cupped his cheek, ran her fingers lightly through his hair. She was crying.

“I couldn’t sell my soul for you, Dean, so I gave myself to Hell—I became Hell—because if it belonged to me, I could keep you out of it. It was the only way.”

Her hand dropped, and she stepped back. “Then I spent the next forty years taking all my memories of you and packing them into a tiny little room that I could walk away from when I needed to do my job. My Hell, Dean. And when you got here, I locked you up inside it so I would know exactly where to find you.”

Dean stared at her, stunned. “Your Hell?” he repeated slowly. “But those were my memories, Sam. The night I hit you—the night I realized how happy you were with Jess!”

“The night I realized that you would never leave Dad for me, and the night I realized that the only thing that could make you come after me was Dad being in danger.”

“And Bela? Cassie?”

“Competition. I was jealous.”

Dean had no idea what to say. “Sammy—”

“I can’t let the angels have you, Dean. I won’t. They’ll take you and I’ll never—”

Dean was out of his chair and over to her in a flash. “Hey, Sammy, no. I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” She was rigid in his arms, trying so hard to hold herself together. He wanted to pull her in close, promise to fix everything, but that wasn’t what she needed right now. She needed to be in control.

He stepped back, forced himself to drop his hands. “What do you want to do, Sam?”

She stood in front of him, shaking, and he made himself wait while she pulled herself together. He watched her focus, draw a shuddering breath and calm the quaking of her body, then raise her eyes to look at him. He hadn’t seen that look in her eyes in a long time.

She reached out a hand to touch him, fingers brushing lightly on his arm, and suddenly they were back in her room, standing at the foot of her bed.

“Touch me,” she said, voice quiet but sure. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and stepped closer to her.

Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her softly, letting his tongue tease at her lips until she opened and let him in. His tongue slid along hers, and he felt her shiver under his hands. Not breaking the kiss, he slid his hands down her neck and over her shoulders to the front of her suit jacket. He carefully unhooked the small button holding it closed and slid the jacket off.

She hummed in approval against his lips, the brought her own hands up to tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck. His hands settled at her waist, and he let her take control of their kisses and guide him to the bed.

She pushed gently until he fell backwards, breaking their kiss. He started to reach for her again, pull her back to where he could keep his hands on her, forever maybe, but she shook her head with a coy smile and danced further out of reach.

She reached behind herself to unhook her skirt, and he could hear the zipper coming slowly down. He watched the material become slack until it dropped down to pool at her feet, revealing the garters and stockings peeking out from under the hem of her white dress shirt. Dean moaned at the sight, felt himself harden fully in his jeans. He reached a hand to cup himself, just to relieve a little of the tension, but she growled at him, and he forced his hand back to the bed, curling it in the soft comforter to keep from moving.

Sam laughed in delight at his quick obedience, low and sexy, and her hands came up to start undoing the tiny buttons of her shirt. She popped them slowly, one by one, until he was panting in anticipation, wanting to see and feel her. Only after the last button was carefully undone did she shrug the shirt off her shoulders. She stood before him in a few scraps of white lace.

“Sammy, please,” he whispered, hands and arms twitching as he fought not to reach for her. She took pity on him and stepped in closer, let him wrap his arms around her and press his lips to her smooth belly, lay a trail of kisses up to where the lace of her bra still covered her breasts.

She sighed at the pleasure of it, and he realized it had been a long time for her too, much longer than it had been for him, and the sudden urgency in her hands meant she had realized it too.

She pulled him up from the bed again, going straight for the buttons of his jeans while he shrugged out of his shirts. She pushed the soft denim down his legs, stopping to untie his boots so he could kick off pants and shoes at the same time. Then she was back up again, barely waiting for him to get completely naked before she was pushing him back down on his back on the bed. It was a few seconds before she was climbing on top of him, and Dean realized she had slipped off her panties and bra while leaving the garters and stockings in place. The sight of her tanned skin, mostly naked and framed in white lace, went straight to his dick, and he had to reach down and squeeze himself to keep from coming. Sam smiled when she realized what he was doing and leaned down to kiss him again while he got himself under control.

She nibbled at his lips and trailed kisses up his cheek and across his closed eyes while he chased her with his lips, trying to catch her mouth again, then she was sitting up, raising herself over him only to sink down slowly over his cock.

They both moaned at the feeling as he filled her, her wet heat surrounding him she rode him hard and fast, knowing this wasn’t going to last very long.

Dean thrust up into her, hands at her waist, matching her frantic rhythm. The sounds of their breathing filled the room, and it wasn’t too long before Sam was shuddering and moaning on top of him, her muscles contracting around him and milking his orgasm from him. He came hard into her, and she collapsed on top of him, spent.

They stayed that way for a long time. His cock softened inside her, but neither was willing to move just yet. Neither wanted to let the other go so soon.

Dean rubbed soothing hands up and down Sam’s spine, feeling her breathing even out and deepen. He held her while she slept, and thought about what he needed to do.

He only hoped Sam would forgive him.

 

—||—||—

 

Dean crept down the hallway as silent as possible, not sure how much time he had left.

He’d left Sam sleeping, cuddled up into her pillows and covered by a fluffy comforter that smelled like them now. He’d thrown his clothes on as quietly as he could and slipped into the main room, moving quickly from painting to painting until he came to the one that looked like Sam’s office. The knife Sam had given him was tucked in at the small of his back in a sheath he’d found in Sam’s closet. He pulled it and made a shallow cut in his palm, let the blood well for a moment before looking at the painting again.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmured, and pressed his hand to the picture.

The door appeared and swung open.

Dean darted through and crossed the office, headed for the conference room. One more door down, and only one left to go to get him to the back stairs. After that, he was still going to have to figure out where Sam had stashed the angel, but one problem at a time.

Because he was not going to let Sam start killing angels. Forty years in Hell and she was still the same Sam—determined, strong, smart—but she wasn’t evil. He knew it. There was still a chance she could come back. But if she declared war on heaven, there was no chance. So he’d free the angel, and send him back to heaven with a message—Dean Winchester would leave Hell when he was good and ready, and the angels could stay topside where they belonged.

He was through the conference room and heading down the stairs in less than a minute. There was no way he could search every floor and hope to just stumble across the right room. But if Sam was as organized and anal as she’d always been, then there was a system in place to keep track of everyone’s location, and someone in this place would know where the angel was being held. And he had an idea of where he could find out.

He kept running down the stairs until he got to _Ten_ —the same door Sam had led them through during the attack. He ran down the hall, not worried about keeping silent for now. Anyone on the other side of those doors wasn’t interested in him, and for all he knew he was already being tracked from Sam’s office. If someone was watching the monitors they’d see him, so speed was his friend now, not stealth.

He stopped when he hit the corner that turned into the reception area. Taking a deep breath, he pasted on his biggest smile and stepped out into the open area, hoping whatever demons may or may not be guarding the entrance would think he’d just stepped out of the elevator.

No one was looking in his direction and he breathed a little easier as he headed for the reception desk. A petite blonde demon sat behind the desk. He could work with that.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he started, giving her his best grin to cover up the fact that he’d just realized he had no idea what time of day it was. Hopefully, she’d just appreciate the sentiment.

She looked a little wary, and he hoped that at some point Sam had spread the message that he was no longer on the Apprehend at All Costs list. She wasn’t reaching for her phone though, so he took that as a good sign.

“I’m looking for Bela,” he said. “Sam sent me with a message? I was hoping you could tell me where she is.” He smiled again.

The demon looked confused for a moment, but returned his smile. “Of course, sir.” She turned to the screen in front of her. It wasn’t a computer, exactly, but she made a few motions at the screen and seemed to come up with the relevant information. “Ms. Talbot is on Level 7. Would you like me to call the elevator for you?”

“Thanks,” he responded, giving her a wink and heading for the opening doors. He walked in and turned around. She was still watching him, and he was pretty sure she was going to be reaching for her phone the second the doors closed. He gave her a small salute anyway.

He’d seen Bela heading towards the angel before Sam had zapped him out of her office, so if Bela was on Level 7, then there was a good chance the angel was being held on Level 7. That was good—it meant he only had to get him up three levels to get him out of the building. He figured if he could get Castiel outside, the angel could take it from there.

But that still left dragging him out of his own private little Hell.

The elevator moved quickly, and he was out in the hall again in less than a minute. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be going back up as quickly, especially if he was lugging an injured angel. They couldn’t take the elevator anyway whether he was injured or not because there was no way the guards were going to let him just walk out the front door with an angel in tow.

The doors were all identical, but Dean figured the two demons standing guard in the hallway were a pretty good indication of which room the angel was in. He approached them calmly, like he had every right to be there, waiting until the last second to draw his knife. Two quick stabs and the demons were down before they’d even had a chance to move. He watched as they died in twin flickers of orange flame.

He returned the knife to its hiding place and approached the door carefully, not sure what he would find on the other side. He pushed it open and stared into…nothing.

Behind the door was nothing, no Bela, no demons, just a little blank room with a dirty angel curled up in the corner. Dean called his name in a whisper.

“Castiel!”

The angel didn’t respond. Dean looked up and down the hall both ways, reluctant to go any farther into the room. The angel didn’t look like he was going to be moving any time soon, though, and Bela not being here was making him very damn nervous so he really didn’t have a choice. He opened the door as far as he could and used half of a dead guard to prop it open.

He let go of the door and darted inside, grabbing one of the angel’s arms and slinging it around his shoulder in one quick movement. The man groaned at the contact, but Dean ignored it, focused instead on dragging him the few remaining feet to the open door. They spilled out into the hall, and Dean headed straight for the stairs again, leaving the mess behind him. He’d come back and take care of it later if he could.

He got them back to the stairwell, but the steps posed a bit more of a problem. They had to climb three stories up, which meant six flights of stairs, and the angel wasn’t exactly a lightweight. The process was slow going, even though the angel was starting to come around and trying to help a little with his feet.

They finally got to the door marked ten and Dean leaned the angel up against the wall next to the door and eased it open carefully. He listened for signs of anyone waiting on the other side or down the hall. Everything was quiet, so he grabbed Castiel by the arm again and eased them through the door.

The moved quicker now, Castiel able to walk a little on his own. Dean led them through the halls, stopping briefly at each juncture to make sure no one was coming from the other direction, until they got to the lobby. Dean peeked around the corner.

One guard on duty, no receptionist.

He turned to look at the angel. “If I deal with the guard, can you get yourself to the door?”

The angel nodded silently and stood up.

Dean watched him for a moment to make sure he was steady, then headed around the corner and straight to the guard’s desk. The man looked surprised to see him, but clearly knew who he was because he didn’t make any move to stop him.

Dean pasted what he hoped was a friendly looking smile on his face. “Hey, man. I got lost,” he said, with a self deprecating shrug. “Think you could call the elevator? Sam’s expecting me.”

“Of course, sir,” the guard began, reaching for the button on his desk.

His eyes suddenly focused on something over Dean’s shoulder and widened in alarm, but before he could make so much as a sound, Castiel was beside him, one hand holding the demon by the shoulder while the other hand spread across his face. Castiel muttered a few words, and the demon fried from the inside out, light pouring out of the holes of his face.

Castiel dropped the guard’s lifeless body to the floor, then looked back at Dean. “Come with me,” he ordered, voice rough.

Dean shook his head. “I’ve got to get back before Sam realizes I’m gone.” He was already backing in the direction they’d come from. “Tell the angels that I’m not leaving here without Sam, so they might as well stop attacking. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

Castiel stared at him a minute, and then shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Dean Winchester.” He took a few steps until he was standing in front of Dean, and the last thing Dean saw was two fingers reaching to touch his forehead.

 

—||—||—

 

He woke up at Bobby’s.

The blanket covering him was scratchy under his fingers, but it felt as familiar as the lumpy couch under him. He wondered what that bastard angel had done to him—his entire body hurt. He sat up slowly, trying to stretch out the kinks, listening for movement in the house. It was quiet.

The sun was low on the horizon through the front windows, which meant dusk not dawn. Someone should be around at this time of day. He started for the kitchen.

Sam met him in the hall. She was crying.

He rushed for her immediately, wondering what those bastard angels had done to her, but she spoke before he could.

“I don’t think I can do this, Dean.” Her voice broke on a fresh wave of tears and she huddled into herself, wiping fitfully at her eyes and trying to pull herself together.

Dean put a hand on her shoulder, not sure if she would welcome his touch right now. He’d only seen her like this once before, but he’d been sunk too deep into his own grief at the time to know how to help her. But if the angels had gotten Sam out of Hell, then he’d figure out how to get Hell out of Sam. “It’ll be okay, Sammy. We’re safe now and we’ll work it out.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and squared her shoulders. Her smile was forced when she looked up at him, but it was a smile. “You’re right. It’s time, and we can do this.”

She took him by the hand and pulled him out of the house. Dean looked around Bobby’s yard, trying to pick his car out of the deepening shadows and hoping Bobby had taken good care of her through all the years he’d been gone. Sam led him through the cars to the edge of the yard and out into the trees. They walked in silence until they came to a small clearing, and Dean’s feet turned to lead when he saw what was at the center of it.

A pyre. And a wrapped body.

He recognized it immediately, knew the position of each and every goddamn stick because he’d placed them there himself. Then he’d wrapped the body—his father’s body—and placed it on the pyre, ready to be burned down to ash.

He was going to be sick.

He turned to run, find a door, find Sam, find out why he was still stuck in Hell, but Sam—the broken Sam of his memories—held him tight. Her eyes were pleading.

“Dean, I know you haven’t been dealing with Dad’s death very well, but you can’t keep running away from this.” Her voice rose in panic, like she was terrified that he was going to leave her here to do this on her own, and even though he knew she wasn’t real, Dean couldn’t turn away. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the lighter he knew he’d find there. Sam picked up the small canister of gasoline that he’d left at the base of the pyre, and together they salted and burned the bones of John Winchester.

Again.

Dean felt all the rage and guilt and grief burn him up from the inside until he was blank and numb. Again.

Sam stood next to him, wet eyes reflecting the firelight. “Did he say anything to you?” she asked him.

But this wasn’t a chance to make up for past mistakes. “No,” he answered, and then turned and headed back to Bobby’s.

The walk was easier this time, and he headed straight for the house at a determined clip. He’d open every goddamned door in the place if he had to, but he was getting out of here now.

He yanked the front door open and stepped out into a dark and quiet street. Sam stood in front of him, backpack thrown over one shoulder and a stuffed duffel bag on the ground at her feet. She was staring up at the stars, but turned to look at him as he approached. She looked sad.

“So,” she said, turning back to the night sky. “What he said…does that go for you, too?”

Dean looked back at the house. A few of the lights were on, and he could hear the sound of a television blaring through the open window. Dad.

He turned back to her. She was watching him, waiting. Behind her, he saw a pair of headlights turn onto the street, knew they’d slow and stop when they got closer and Sam would crawl inside and be gone.

“No, Sammy. Never.” His voice broke.

She smiled at him then, a real smile, and pulled him into a hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He held her as long as he could, listened to her breathe, and tried to remind himself that he’d see her again.

The car rolled to a stop behind them, window rolling down and a nice voice asking if they needed a lift. Sam turned and thanked the driver, tossed her bag into the back seat, and looked back one last time at Dean.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then she was gone.

Dean trudged back to the house, the dwindling sound of the car’s engine screaming in his ears like an oncoming train. He couldn’t bring himself to go back inside, though, knew if he did he’d just have to relive his father’s near-maniacal determination to convince them both that nothing was wrong, especially John Winchester, and that nothing had changed. That they were better off this way. Neither of them had believed it at the time, and hindsight was only going to make it worse. The Winchester family had started hemorrhaging that night, and neither of them had known it.

He dropped down on to the front stoop and let his head fall into his hands. He knew, with absolute one-hundred-percent certainty, that a few years from this moment he’d have Sam back. He knew what they would be to each other. But he also knew how long those years would feel, and all the shit they’d have to slog through after—losing Jess, losing Dad, watching Sam die and then go to Hell in his place.

If he’d have let Sam go this night—really let her go, told her never to come back—maybe he could have saved her, and himself and Dad too. Instead, he’d traded one Hell for another. And he’d gotten Sam stuck too.

He sat outside until the television finally shut off and the house slowly went dark behind him. And when his father’s snoring finally drowned out the fading echo of a car engine, he got up and trudged inside.

A muddy road stretched out in front of him, the cloud-covered moon high over head barely illuminating a sad collection of rundown buildings. Thunder rumbled overhead. Dean knew the storm would hold just long enough.

 _No_ , he thought, and stopped walking.

It was already too late, though. Sam was stumbling toward him, barely fifty feet in front of him. “ _Dean_ ,” he heard her say.

He shook his head, unable to stop the motion once he’d started, and took a step back. “No.”

He watched the crumpled figure on the ground behind Sam rise, watched him pick something up, watched him rush at his sister.

“No!” he screamed, rushing forward, Sam crumpling to the ground as he reached her.

She was dead weight against his chest, face pressed against his neck. Tendrils of her hair tickled his mouth, moved by his breath as he whispered “ _not again not again not again_ ” over and over.

He held her until the clouds broke and Bobby returned, said they had to get inside. Then he picked her up and carried her into the building Bobby indicated, and laid her on a filthy mattress already stained with his sister’s blood.

Then, he waited.

He was done. Done talking, done reliving the worst goddamn parts of his life, done. If he was going to be trapped in his own personal Hell for eternity, then it was going to be this one right here, and he’d stay in this room with the proof of all his mistakes until Sam came for him or the universe imploded in on itself. He ignored Bobby’s repeated attempts to get him to leave or at least eat, and he barely noticed when the man finally gave up and left for good. He watched shadows move from one side of the room to the other until they filled it, and then start over again the next day, over and over until he wished he’d thought to keep count.

And through it all, he did not say anything. Not one goddamn word.

But the words echoed in his memory anyway.

 _I blew it, Sammy._

Finally, Sam showed up. The deal had been made a long time ago.

She stood in the doorway, ignoring the body on the bed like it was just another piece of abandoned furniture, and watched him thoughtfully like she wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.

He didn’t say anything.

Eventually, she broke the silence, calm and cold. “I had to do it, Dean. You brought this on yourself.”

Dean looked at her, eyes narrowed but not angry.

“I woke up when you left. Tracked you all the way, had extra guards waiting to stop you before you could leave the building.” She cocked her head to the side, angry now, and hurt. “Honestly? I wanted to kill you as soon as you dragged that angel out of his cell. But Bela insisted. She wanted to see just how far you’d take your little rescue attempt. We were already moving when you got to the doors, and when the angel took you down, we took him down.

“You’re punishment is over. You’re free to go now.” She turned to walk out the door, dismissing him.

“Wha—” his voice cracked, broken from long disuse. He swallowed and tried again. “What happened to him?”

Sam stopped, looked back over her shoulder. “I killed him myself.”

Then she was gone, leaving the door open behind her.

 

—||—||—

 

 **CHAPTER 5**

 

Dean stared out the window. He was stood at the doors, looking out into the wasteland that lay beyond the walls of Sam’s stronghold. The building was quiet around him, but he could almost hear that howling wind and feel the burning sand scrape across his skin. He didn’t know what else was out there—roving bands of rebel demons, apparently—but he wasn’t sure anymore that he was any better off in here than he was out there.

“Soul for your thoughts?”

Dean didn’t turn around, but wasn’t surprised at all when Bela didn’t take the hint. She sidled up next to him and stared out the window too.

“When I first got here, it was all like that. I spent ten years getting my skin ripped off every day by that blasted wind. When she found me, Sam didn’t have to ask me twice to join her.”

Dean sighed. “Well, good talk. See you around, Bela.” He turned and started back down the hall.

“Dean!” she called after him. He kept walking. “Why are you still here?”

He stopped. Bela caught up to him, planted herself in front of him and waited for an answer.

Dean frowned. “I’m not leaving without Sam.”

Bela rolled her eyes. “I swear, you Winchesters are so high maintenance. Come with me.” She started walking back to the doors. Dean didn’t move. She turned, gesturing for him to follow her. “Well? Come on, then.”

She waited until he was beside her before pushing the door open, and they both stepped out into the red-tinted wasteland. Bela grabbed hold of his arm and started walking away from the building. The wind was wailing and tearing at them, and flying sand and sulfur clogged his throat, but she kept going, dragging them both out into the plain. Finally she turned to him.

“Sam’s not out here!” she shouted.

“What?” he shouted back.

“Sam is not out here!” She gestured back at the building, and he turned to see it rising incongruously behind them. “Sam is in there. She made it, created it in her image, but it’s all her, do you see? It’s different in there than it is out here, but it’s all Hell. The parts where you suffer and the parts where you don’t, but it’s all Hell and it’s all hers. So why are you looking out here?”

Dean could barely hear her over the wind, but he couldn’t mistake her meaning.

He shouted back at her. “Why do even care, Bela? Why are you telling me this?”

She smiled, bright and sunny and so _Bela_ that he had to stop himself from making sure he still had his wallet. “Dean. Assistant, remember? If she needs something, I make sure she gets it.”

Dean nodded slowly and started pulling her back toward the building, only managing to make it a few steps before her hand was torn from his. He turned, looking for her, and was surprised to find they weren’t alone. A man—demon or angel, Dean wasn’t sure—had dragged Bela away from him. His hand was spread across her face and he shouted something, and Dean watched as Bela screamed, light pouring out of the holes of her face as she burned out from the inside. The angel—it must have been an angel—dropped her, and advanced on Dean.

Dean turned, broke for the building at a run, but he was surrounded and only made it a few more feet before the angels were on him. And once again, darkness was preceded by two light fingers at his forehead.

 

—||—||—

 

Dean woke up in a cell. The room was bright, nicely decorated with various pieces of art and fancy crown molding, and a table stood in the center covered with beer and food. But Dean knew a cell when he saw one. There were no doors. There was nothing else in the room.

Well, except for the angel.

Castiel stood to one side of the door, staring down at him. The angel’s face was blank, but Dean wasn’t sure if that was because he was trying to hide what he was feeling, or because he wasn’t feeling anything at all.

Dean sat up from where he’d been dumped on the floor and glared at Castiel. “Well, that’s gratitude for you.”

The angel had the grace to look chagrined. “I am sorry, Dean, but we could not allow you to stay in Hell.”

“Why not?” Dean growled, pulling himself up and into the nearest chair.

“Your sister is going to start the apocalypse.”

Dean froze. “Say again?”

“It is her destiny. Just as it is yours to stop it.”

Dean just stared then shook his head with a laugh. “Look, buddy, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but Sam isn’t interested in starting the apocalypse.”

“I am sorry, Dean, but it’s true.”

Dean glared at him. Castiel stared back at him, unblinking and earnest. Also, surprisingly alive. “I thought you were dead,” he grumbled.

“You were mistaken.”

“Obviously,” Dean snapped. “Sam told me…”

The angel regarded him for a moment. “Your sister spared my life. She wanted me to deliver a message—that you were to be left alone.”

“So Sam locked me up in Hell’s funhouse for trying to do the same thing she ended up doing?” Dean lunged out of his chair, unable to sit still anymore or meet the angel’s dispassionate gaze. Facing the wall, he tried to wrap his mind around what Castiel had told him.

Sam had lied to him. She’d tortured him and then lied to his face. “Dammit!” he hissed, picking up a plaster stature from a nearby table and hurling it at the opposite wall. It shattered nicely but did little to calm the churning in his gut.

Castiel made no move to stop him, and when he looked at the table again, the statue was back in its place.

Dean wanted to cry. He sank back into his chair instead.

Castiel spoke again. His voice was softer this time, not gentle but not unkind. “A leader is only as strong as the image they project, Dean.”

Dean looked at the angel again, eyebrow raised in disbelief. “You defending her now?”

Castiel looked uncomfortable—the first of any emotion Dean had seen him display. “I feel…obligated. She could have killed me. She didn’t.”

Dean huffed out a breath. “Whatever.” He didn’t want to talk about what Sam could have done anymore. “Why are the angels after me, anyway?”

Castiel’s face returned to its thoughtful mask and Dean decided to take that as gratitude for the change in subject.

“Well,” a third voice spoke from behind Dean. “You’re the star of the show, of course!”

Castiel nodded, almost bowing to the person behind Dean, and Dean spun in his chair to follow Castiel’s gaze. An older man stood behind him, balding and round all over, with a jovial smile on his face. He walked around and stood in front of Dean, offered his hand. Dean eyed him suspiciously until the man simply reached down and grabbed his hand off the arm of the chair, giving it an energetic shake. “The name’s Zachariah.” He turned to Castiel. “Thank you, Brother. I’ll take over from here.”

Castiel nodded deferentially and resumed his quiet place at the door.

Zachariah turned back to Dean and stared at him silently, head tilted to the side and a small smile on his face. After a long moment, he pulled up a chair and sat facing Dean, putting them almost knee-to-knee. Dean stared back balefully.

“Wow. Dean Winchester,” Zachariah began. “Gotta say, I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time.”

Dean stared back at him. “Yeah, I’ve been on vacation.”

Zachariah laughed, and Dean sobered a little at the barely concealed nastiness underlying the sound. “Well, all vacations do have to come to an end, unfortunately, and now it’s time to get back to work. Truth is, Dean, we need your help.”

“Let me guess, it’s my destiny to stop the apocalypse. I gotta tell you,” Dean added, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, “I’ve never been a big believer in destiny.”

The angel looked smug. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Dean, because it’s not your destiny to stop anything.”

Dean refused to let his expression change, just waited for Zachariah to continue, but he didn’t miss the fact that Castiel had stiffened and was clearly waiting for Zachariah to continue too.

“The apocalypse _is_ coming,” the angel began, standing to study the room’s various paintings as he spoke, like he was some kind of insane tour guide. “I mean, just look at the world. What is wrong with people today? People murdering each other over Beanie Babies, people getting trampled to death because someone wanted to save twenty bucks on a DVD player? The world is a mess and it’s time for a cleanup.”

He turned back to Dean. “So, the powers that be decided to throw a little apocalypse, and everyone’s invited. The wicked will fall and the righteous will be saved, and everything will go back to the way it’s supposed to be. Like a giant, universal reset button.”

“The powers that be—what, you mean God?”

“Close enough,” Zachariah answered. Castiel took a small step forward.

“So why haven’t you hit the button?”

Zachariah smiled. “Interesting fact, and I bet you didn’t know this: angels can’t start the apocalypse. We can end it—we will end it—but the other side gets first down, so to speak.”

Dean stared at Zachariah, feeling sick. “And you think Sam’s going to start it for you?”

Something ugly flashed across Zachariah’s face before he covered it with a genial grin. “Well, originally you were going to do it.” He let that sink in for a minute before continuing. “We needed a righteous man in Hell to kick-start the whole process, so you can imagine we were pretty excited when you sold your soul. A beautiful act of self-sacrifice.” He shook his head in mock wonder. “We had everything all set up, too, and all we’d have to do was sit back and wait for you to break.”

Dean clenched his fist, forced himself not to move. Zachariah noticed, though, and just laughed and returned to his seat, scooting the chair closer and forcing Dean to lean back.

He continued. “And then your sister had to go all noble on us and go to Hell in your place.”

Dean stiffened. “Sam’s righteous, more righteous that I’ve ever been.”

Zachariah waved a hand dismissively. “Sam’s tainted.”

Dean leaned forward in his chair, eyes hard and fixed on Zachariah, but the angel just waved his hand again and Dean felt himself pressed back hard in his chair, unable to move. He struggled a moment, straining to stand or even pull one hand away from the arm it rested on, but he was stuck.

Zachariah watched him fight, amused. Dean finally settled, glaring at Zachariah defiantly.

“Sam’s tainted,” he said again, slower this time, “with demon blood. But even that might not have made a difference. We didn’t realize there was a problem until after Sam got to Hell.

“See, your sister’s sacrifice gave her more grace than most humans ever earn—greater love hath no man than this, and all that. And if she’d have just died and gone to Hell, it wouldn’t have mattered. Hell would have leeched any goodness out of her and she’d have stepped off the rack like everyone else and picked up a poker of her own.” He leaned closer. “But then we get back to that pesky demon blood, and instead of just being another lost soul, your sister walked into Hell, _part angel and part demon_ , and took control of everything.”

Dean stopped breathing. _Sam was part angel? Was that why the Colt hadn’t killed her?_

Zachariah watched him digest that bit of information and then stood up. Dean found he could move again, but he didn’t feel like getting up at the moment. He glanced at Castiel. The angel was staring at Zachariah, looking like he was about to do the angel-equivalent of throwing up.

Zachariah clapped his hands together, suddenly brusque and businesslike. “So. Now your sister’s got the demons mostly contained and as long as she keeps you off the rack, well, let’s just say the party’s been indefinitely postponed. She has seriously fucked with my timetable, and I’ve had to come up with a new plan. That’s where you come in.”

He moved to the center table and perched on the edge, distancing himself somewhat from Dean. “Funny story—Hell still owns your soul. The contract still exists, but the person who currently owns it is just choosing not to collect on it, luckily for you. _Un_ luckily for you, the fact that there’s still a contract in place means that, should you happen to find yourself in Hell with no one around to protect you, you just might get a taste of what usually happens to people who sell their souls. And I just happen to have some friend in low places who are willing to honor your contract.”

Castiel stepped forward. “You’re going to send him back to Hell?”

Zachariah ignored him. “They’ll torture you until you break, and we can get this Apocalypse ball rolling again. Sam should be a little more cooperative now that I have such an excellent bargaining chip. See, there’s these pesky seals that have to open before the party can really get started, and your baby sis went and locked up the one we really need.”

“Which is?” Dean asked.

“Lilith. We need Lilith.”

“Sam killed Lilith. It was the first thing she did when she took over Hell.”

“Wrong again, Dean-o. She didn’t kill her, she defeated her. And now Sam’s got her locked up in a dungeon buried so deep in Hell that no one knows how to get to her. No one but Sam.”

“You think Sam’s going to tell you where she’s hidden Lilith?”

“In a word, no. But she will trade Lilith for you.”

“And why would she do that? Last time we talked she’d just finished torturing me for months.”

The angel smirked, and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “We know, Dean. About you and Sam. We’ve been watching you two for a long time.”

“And what exactly do you know?” Dean growled.

The smile fell from the angel’s face, and Dean finally felt like he was looking at the real man. “That you spent every last day of your last miserable year on earth fornicating and defiling every last place you visited . You spread your sinful filth all over, and then you let Sam go to Hell in your place. If you had gone, like you were supposed to, Lilith would be free right now and I wouldn’t have had to spend the last several years consorting with demons.” He leaned forward again, practically snarling in Dean’s face. “I can still smell reeking sulfur everywhere I go and I will never be able to remove the demon taint from my grace. And all because you were too big a coward to burn in Hell like you were supposed to.”

Dean jumped up, chair tumbling over behind him, but the angel just smiled meanly and sent him flying backwards with a wave of his hand to crash into one gilded wall.

Zachariah continued, watching Dean drag himself off the floor. “Right now, a battalion of angels is storming your sister’s little fortress and telling her exactly what choices she has. She can free Lilith, or decorate her office in your entrails, because that’s all of you she’ll be getting back. And if she still won’t do what we want, there’s always this.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out Dean’s knife, the one Sam had given him.

“Bet she’ll be surprised to see I have this,” he said, and with that he was gone.

Dean stared at the place the angel had been, then headed for the door, intending to bust out. He forgot Castiel was still in the room with him until Castiel stopped him.

“This is very wrong.”

Dean advancing on him angrily. “You think? A hundred angels are attacking my sister, and I’m trapped in heaven’s green room!”

“No,” Castiel responded just as angrily. “Zachariah is wrong. This is not how it was supposed to be. We’re meant to be stopping the apocalypse, not starting it.”

“Well, apparently you’re playing a different game than your boss, there.”

“If Sam gives him Lilith, the world as we know it will end.”

“Sam won’t give him Lilith,” Dean muttered.

Castiel was silent for a minute. “You doubt Sam’s loyalty to you?”

Dean looked up at him with a bitter laugh. “As far as Sam knows, she let me out of prison and I took off without a word. Even if I do make it back, she’ll probably be the one reducing me to entrails.” Dean’s gaze dropped to the floor.

Suddenly Castiel was beside him, dragging him toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Dean shook his hand off, only to be grabbed again. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’ve got to get to Sam before Zachariah does. There’s more to this than you comprehend, Dean.”

“What are you talking about?”

Castiel looked frustrated and scared. The emotionless façade was cracking. “If Sam is truly part angel like Zachariah says, then part of her power comes from her angelic grace.”

“Okay…”

“When an angel rebels against Heaven, they lose grace. If Sam decides not to bargain with Zachariah and instead declares war on Heaven, she’ll fall. She’ll lose most of the power that that she’s using to control Hell. The demons will run free.”

“Including Lilith.”

“Yes. And the only way Sam will be able to regain control is to increase her demonic powers. She’ll need blood, lots of it, and powerful too.”

Dean wiped a hand over his face. “She’ll kill Lilith.”

“And set the Apocalypse in motion. Either way, Zachariah wins. You have to stop that from happening.”

Castiel stepped close and gripped Dean by the shoulder, and then they were moving, caught in swirls of color and light, and then they were standing on the plains of Hell. Castiel released him, and Dean could feel the wind tearing at him and he choked on the taste of sulfur.

“I’ve returned you to Perdition,” Castiel said. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a pointed silver blade, similar to the blades Alastair and Ipos had used against the angels before. He wondered how they’d gotten theirs. “Take this,” Castiel said, pressing it into his hand. “It’s the only thing that can kill an angel.”

Dean protested. “What about you? Won’t you need it?”

Castiel shook his head. “I have to return to Heaven,” he said. “My Father must know of this.”

Dean nodded accepted the weapon, feeling the weight of it in his hand before slipping it up the sleeve of his coat. He looked at Castiel again. “Good luck.”

The angel nodded and disappeared.

Dean looked around him.

Sam’s fortress rose in front of him, but it had changed. It looked more like a true fortress now, bristling with stone turrets and pillars, but there were still huge patches of shiny high-rise windows scattered across the façade, like the two buildings had slammed into each other and were now trying to occupy the same space.

Where the doors of the building had once been, the gaping mouth of a cavern yawned. He approached it cautiously, surprised to see jagged pieces of broken glass still scattered across what used to be the floor of the lobby. Patches of carpet and cream-colored paint still covered parts of the rough-hewn stone floor and walls, and the walls themselves were split with deep cracks. Sharp rocks cut through to the inside, giving the entire room a cavernous feeling. His footsteps echoed off the distant ceiling, but other than that, there was no sound.

The elevator was completely gone, the shaft turned into a gaping pit. He stepped closer, peering over the edge into the darkness. The red glow of fire burned at the bottom and as he stood there gazing down into the bloody-red shadows, the wailing of burning souls rose to his ears. He searched the darkness, found stone steps carved in a spiral around the walls of the pit, and he started to climb.

He knew Zachariah had to be here already, but he hadn’t seen signs of a single angel.

Or Sam.

He pushed that thought from his mind and kept climbing. Sam had to be in her office. That was her power center, and if she’d been pushed back, that’s where she’d be. He climbed faster.

A light appeared above his head. It was dim at first, not a single source of light—more of a general glow. Soon, the edges of the pit were illuminated, and Dean knew he was close. He could hear voices now, and the sound of clashing metal.

The stairs opened up into a cavernous room as he climbed out of the pit. The ceiling stretched high above his head, lit by some unknown source, and the stone floor spread out in every direction until it disappeared into shadows long before it touched the walls. At the far side of the room was a raised stone dais, and on the dais stood Sam. The business suit was gone, replaced by shining black armor. It molded to her body, burning red in the depths of it, and she looked every inch the embodiment of Hell. Her sword was in her hand, and the floor between her and where he stood watching her was covered with dead angels and demons.

Zachariah stood in front of her. They were talking; Dean was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he had a pretty good idea. He darted for the closest wall, picking his way carefully over the array of corpses. He passed Alastair. The demon was down, leaning back against a jagged rock that had sprouted from the floor. Both of his legs were missing below the knees, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was licking what Dean assumed to be angel blood off his blade and humming quietly to himself. Dean kept going.

Closer now, he could make out some of the conversation passing between his sister and Zachariah. He watched his sister shake her head and raise her sword threateningly, but Zachariah just laughed. Sam’s eyes narrowed, and she took a step down, getting closer to the edge of the dais. Dean crept forward, almost even now with Sam’s right side.

Zachariah was speaking. “—interesting that you still think you have a choice here.”

Sam stared him down, power radiating off her in waves. “Tell me where my brother is,” she growled.

Zachariah spread his hands, placating. “Of course. Just as soon as you release Lilith.”

“No.”

“Then you’ll never see Dean again.”

Sam raised her sword and took the remaining few steps down off the dais, advancing on Zachariah. He turned, letting her circle him a few steps, then calmly reached into his jacket and pulled out Dean’s knife. Sam paled when she saw it, and Zachariah made a big show of looking back and forth between the knife and Sam, like he was piecing together some bit of information.

“Oh, this? Dean gave me this.” He sliced it through the air a few times, wiped some imagined speck off the blade. “He told me what it does. It kills demons. Kills humans pretty good, too,” he added with a laugh. “Worked on him anyway.”

Sam snarled and leaped at him, sword flashing as she swung for him. Zachariah was fast, though, darted backwards out of her reach and then feinted left before lunging for her right side. She blocked his clumsy blow, sent him skidding along the floor. But he was up again like lightning, running straight for her and slicing the knife across the meat of her sword arm when she tried to dodge him. She dropped her sword, hand going to the fresh wound.

“Sam!” he yelled.

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice, joy and relief on her face. She pulled herself up and started for him.

Zachariah used her momentary distraction to attack, and Dean watched in horror as the knife slid under her breastplate and between her ribs.

Zachariah tore the knife down her side and out of her flesh with a spray of blood and Sam went down in a heap on the floor.

“No!” he yelled, running for her, but Zachariah stepped between him and Sam’s too-still body.

“Dean. I want to say I’m surprised you’re here, but you do have a habit of being in the wrong place all the time.” As he spoke, he looked around for something to wipe the blood off his—Dean’s—knife. He finally settled on the shirt of one of the bodies at his feet. “You got here awfully fast though. Apparently I’m going to have to have a chat with Castiel.”

“You’re not gonna live long enough,” Dean spat, advancing on the angel again.

Zachariah laughed. “Come on, now, Dean. Do you really think bad action-movie dialogue is the way to go, here? I mean, it’s not like you can kill me. You should be thanking me!”

Dean pulled Castiel’s sword from his sleeve and had the satisfaction of watching the smile fall from Zachariah’s face.

“More than a chat, apparently.” The angel eyed him warily. “Look, Dean. It’s not too late for you. There is still going to be an apocalypse to stop. You could be a part of that.”

“Oh, I’m gonna stop it alright,” Dean said, and lunged at Zachariah.

Zachariah brought his knife up in time to stop Dean’s attack, but the blow knocked him back several feet. Dean followed, knocking the knife out of Zachariah’s hand. It clattered to the floor and slid, landing just past Sam’s feet.

Zachariah turned to run, but Dean was on him again, knocking him to the floor and landing hard on his back. Dean raised his sword and stabbed it straight down through Zachariah’s back, the blade piercing straight through his heart. Light poured out of him, flashing from his eyes and mouth, and then he fell to the floor, dead.

Dean heaved himself off the angel and ran to where Sam lay, blood pooling quickly beneath her body, and pulled his sister into his arms.

 

—||—||—

 

Dean stepped up out of the pit.

The room was clean now, and was starting to look more like an office again as Sam recovered. It hadn’t reverted to its former size though, and it was still jarring to see leather couches and a coffee maker sitting in the middle of a huge stone cavern.

The throne was still in place as well, taking the space the desk would eventually inhabit. Sam was seated on it now, and she looked so comfortable there, as comfortable as she had once looked behind her messy desk. Dean didn’t know why that should surprise him, but it did.

She was thinking now, or brooding more likely. He could tell as he got closer to her that she was off somewhere in her mind. In the days it had taken her to recover her strength, he’d told her what had happened with Zachariah, what he’d learned as the angel’s prisoner.

He’d returned to the surface only once since then, to return Castiel’s sword. The angel had met him solemnly, and had informed Dean that Heaven was in upheaval. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care too much. They had their own problems to deal with in Hell.

Sam finally looked up and noticed him coming. She smiled at him, sweet and dimpled, and he was glad to see very little of the tiredness that had graced her features for the past few days. He bowed low as he approached her throne, popping back up with a mocking wink and a grin, and she just shook her head at him and rolled her eyes.

She stood, stepping down to meet him on the floor. “Lilith’s gone,” she said.

Dean’s smile faded. “You’re sure?”

“I went to see for myself. The tomb I had her locked in was open and empty. She could be anywhere, but I’m guessing she went topside to recoup.”

“You think she’ll come back.” It wasn’t a question.

Sam gave him a smile, smaller than the last one, but didn’t answer right away. She took him by the hand and led him to the stairs, starting down in front of him. “She has unfinished business here.”

“You can’t kill her, Sammy,” Dean reminded her, following her step-by-step.

“I know, Dean. I remember. But I can’t let her run around either. We’ve got to be ready when she comes.”

Dean just nodded and took a deep breath, wiping his free hand across his face. “I guess we’ve got work to do, then?”

Sam stopped where a new cavern had opened up in the wall of the pit. Dean had noticed it on the way up but hadn’t taken the time to investigate. The stepped into it together, and Dean was surprised to see white double doors opening in front of them. Sam turned and smiled at him.

“We’ve got some time,” she said, and pulled him inside.

 

—||—||—

  


  


END

**Author's Note:**

> I never could have done this on my own, so some thank-yous are in order:
> 
> First, many thanks again to davincis_girl for her amazing art. I could not have hoped for better, or for having such beautiful pieces to go with my very first Big Bang. I had no idea how she was going to bring girl!Sam to life for me, and it was like she took images from my head and somehow made them appear on my screen. SHE IS AMAZING. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE remember to visit one of her art posts and tell her how awesome she is! ( [Livejournal](http://davincis-girl.livejournal.com/135443.html) / [Dreamwidth](http://davincis-girl.dreamwidth.org/11966.html) )
> 
> Second, I don’t know what I would have done without my betas, hopefulwriter27 and truelyesoteric. I procrastinated (as usual) and didn’t have my final draft completed until a week before I was scheduled to post, and I kind of went to both of them begging and feeling terrible that I was asking on such short notice. But both of them said “no problem, send it over” and got back to me within days with many helpful suggestions. This story is tighter and clearer because of them, and I really appreciate it. To both of you, RE: girl!Sam—I know. I should have listened. But thanks to your help, I’m pretty happy with the way this turned out. Also, hopefulwriter27 gets all the credit for coming up with the “If Heaven is all your best memories, then what if Hell is your worst?” idea.
> 
> Last, thanks to my flisties who cheered me on and listened to me bitch about my story. I love you bbs!!!
> 
> As for the story, I guess I don't have much to say about it. I signed up for bigbang with a completely different idea in mind, but it just wasn't happening, and this story just kind of happened instead. It's not my favorite story among the few I've written, but I feel pretty good about how it turned out, and I'm just proud of myself for finishing it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
